Rowdy: A Scorched Souls Spinoff Page 5

  Thank God no one interrupts my getaway.

  I parked my new Jeep Ranger in a public lot, three blocks away. The Jeep will allow me to go off-road and has enough room for me to sleep comfortably. Even better, Dr. Martin doesn’t know I traded in my vintage Volkswagen for this latest ride, which gives me some much-needed anonymity. This is one purchase I won’t regret regardless of the hefty price tag.

  I’m not sure where I’m headed after I spring Scrooge from kitty-day care, but at least we will be traveling in style and safety.

  Yeah right. Safety is nothing but an illusion, the negative voice in my head taunts.

  Refusing to dwell on the unconstructive thought, I twist my hair up, stuffing as much of it as I can fit inside a baseball cap. Once satisfied I’ve altered my appearance enough to shield my identity, I pull the faded business card from my pocket.

  Finding the card is what gave me the courage to take action and leave Seattle behind, but now that it’s time to dial the number and claim my favor, I’m questioning the merit of my plan.

  I try to relax and allow my mind to take a much needed detour from today’s troubles, a detour all the way back to the final week I worked in the emergency room, the same night I met an angel named Demon.

  Dr. Martin

  I don’t know what exactly Trina Templeton knows, but she remembers something. Worse, another employee must be in league with her, more specifically, someone from my trusted security team.

  My security personnel have been led to believe my knowledge is limited to the medical field and running a clinic. What they don’t realize is my level of technical expertise exceeds theirs.

  I can’t prove it, not yet, anyway, but there appears to be a glitch on one of the security tapes from last week, which means I have at least one traitor in my ranks.

  The glitch is from a day I happened to be out of the office on a ski trip. That’s clearly no coincidence. It was also the day someone broke into my office and snooped through my most private and prized documents.

  At the moment, I’m watching today’s fire alarm footage, searching for the culprit who I am certain was last week’s burglar as well. My breathing has become shallow and my palms are damp, sure signs I’m losing control of my emotions.

  I hate losing control. But it’s hard not to when someone, somewhere in my facility, set off the alarm.

  There is no video evidence that confirms the guilty party. In fact, this time, there are no glitches, nor are there any time discrepancies, but the fire alarm didn’t go off by itself.

  Unfortunately, it took well over two hours to handle several, post-evacuation, patient issues, which provided sufficient time for someone knowledgeable enough to work their own technical magic on today’s recording, leaving me in the dark, feeling frustrated.

  Unable to get Trina Templeton out of my head, I pull up her official schedule.

  According to Friday’s data, she logged out of the building shortly before the chaos started, for a dentist appointment she’d cleared with me a few days ago.

  Maybe I’m off track and it’s one of the other playthings, but Trina had abruptly stopped seeing me on a personal level after her post-holiday, wellness week.

  She blamed her inability to be intimate on PTSD and stated she needed time to heal. She seemed skittish for a few days after dumping me, giving me reason to suspect she remembered something from our playtime.

  In response to her rejection, I’ve taken up tormenting her.

  Phone calls, where I hang up when she answers; late night knocks on her window, from the fire escape; and notes on her car have become the norm.

  In essence, I’ve been stalking her and enjoying watching her become more and more unnerved as the weeks pass. I’ve caught her glancing over her shoulder several times, a sure sign she’s starting to unravel.

  At work I continue to play the concerned employer, checking on her health and encouraging her to pursue her career goals. But the fact remains, she hasn’t approached me, even once, for advice or support in relation to the stalking incidents, an indication she no longer trusts me. More likely, she suspects I’m the one harassing her.

  On the other hand, since those first days after our “break up,” she’s done nothing blatant to arouse my suspicions, always treating me with polite respect, but I’ve learned the hard way, ignoring my inner warning system can prove costly.

  What really set me off was discovering someone had been inside, not just my office, but inside my private desk compartment when I’d been enjoying the slopes.

  I’ve purposely kept my office accessible as a temptation for anyone bold enough to enter without my permission, making any would-be-sleuth’s success short-lived. But despite leaving the old-fashioned lock as a lure, no one knows about the silent alarm that triggers when the desk compartment is opened.

  It was the alarm’s notification system that clued me in to the office invasion and prompted me to replay last week’s security footage in the first place. Other than some blurry transitions, there was nothing out of the ordinary, but those slight anomalies made me uncomfortable, so I removed the file until today, replacing it, without its normal contents, during the earlier chaos.

  If any of my office playthings reopen the drawer, they will uncover the message I left specifically for Ms. Templeton.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I have only myself to blame for this situation.

  My weakness for reminiscing has put me at risk of exposure. Keeping those playtime pictures at work has turned into another negative consequence, courtesy of my overconfidence. As hard as I try to be modest, I end up gloating and getting into trouble.

  When will I learn?

  Now people are going to die.

  Thank God it’s Friday. I’ll pay a midnight visit to my favorite nurse. Depending on the results, Ms. Templeton may not be around much longer, which is too bad, really.

  She’s a damn good employee and so much fun to torment. I’ll miss her.

  And that’s a first.

  Trina

  I drive faster, down a dark stretch of road headed toward my sole female friend’s duplex, in Gig Harbor.

  I just covered four hours of another nurse’s shift, and I am not sure why the hell I’m not cuddled up with Scrooge in my new loft. I’ve worked ten hours, not counting the extra four, dealing with a long list of trauma situations that included a stabbing and gunshot wound.

  Thank God I’ll be reporting to my new position at Brain Matters on Monday morning, leaving the emergency room and its marathon shifts behind.

  I was supposed to go out drinking and dancing with Cheryl to celebrate my career transition, but once again, work interfered. She went without me and called later, crying from home. I figure after all the times I’ve cancelled our plans last minute, I can at least drop by and see what has her so upset.

  Like me, Cheryl isn’t typically a tear-shedder, but something tonight set her off enough to ask for my help. I have to admit I’m both curious and concerned about what or who has my only girlfriend reduced to tears.

  I’m shocked back to the present moment when the taillights ahead of me swerve and the vehicle skids off the road and down a slight incline.

  Doing what any Good Samaritan with medical experience should do, I pull up nearby, ready to assist. It’s a white cargo van and so far no one’s moving. I find my phone and am preparing to dial 911.

  Before I touch the first number, the rumble of several motorcycles hijacks my attention.

  One, with a monster-sized man, pulls up to my window and motions me to roll it down. Another van pulls onto the shoulder, near its counterpart.

  What the hell?

  The Monster-Man raps against the glass, giving me a perfect view of his tattoo covered knuckles and giant rings, one on every finger.

  Too scared not to obey, I finally hit the down switch.

  “Don’t be calling anyone, not yet. Let’s see what’s happening first,” he orders, revealing an accent I don’t recognize. Russian m
aybe?

  Frightened and unable to stay quiet, I blurt, “I’m a nurse. I carry a first aid kit.”

  He nods and duck-walks his huge Harley back and away from my car door, motioning me to get out and follow. He’s parked and marching toward the wrecked van in seconds, despite his large stature.

  As I struggle to keep up with his long strides, I notice all the men are wearing matching leather vests with the same logo across the back.

  Hells Guardians.

  Fantastic! I’m alone, on a dark road, with bikers from the nation’s most notorious motorcycle gang.

  I know this because Hells Guardians held a rally in Seattle a few months ago, and the news stations had gone wild with stories of crime and corruption, comparing the MC to the former hit TV show, Sons of Anarchy...but worse. Then, shortly after the rally, I watched a scary documentary on outlaw bikers. It painted a grim picture of the biker scene.

  The programming made a definite impact, and I bought into the negative hype, now I’m petrified.

  “I think he had a heart attack. Hit his head too, Demon,” one of the bikers calls out, interrupting my mental gymnastics.

  “Get the shipment transferred to the other van,” Demon barks before glancing back at me. “Can you help?”

  The injured man turned roadside patient obviously needs emergency medical attention. So forgetting my fears, I jump into action, doing what I’ve been trained for.

  Another biker has already placed our patient on the ground and started CPR. From what I can see he is out of his element and struggling to find a rhythm. I’m relieved the fallen man is at least breathing. I won’t need the AED. A heart attack is typically better than cardiac arrest. Plumbing versus electrical—the heart is like a house. Damage can happen in different “rooms” and systems.

  I take over the CPR, praying for the best and trusting I’ve targeted the right room. I’m afraid if I don’t keep the biker alive, I’ll find myself in a grave alongside him.

  The Big Guy upstairs must be in a prayer answering mood because it’s just a minute later when he his eyes flutter and he groans, “My fucking chest.”

  “Stay quiet and don’t move. Does anyone have a blanket?” I chide myself for not asking sooner. He’s already in shock.

  Someone comes from behind and covers him.

  “We need to call 911,” I insist, growing bolder now that I’m in a familiar role.

  Demon appears at my side. “Taken care of.” He gives me a curious look I can’t quite decipher. I guess he’s thinking about what to do with me since I’ve served my purpose.

  Dear Lord have mercy. They’re going to kill me and bury me in a shallow grave.

  My expression must have provided a hint to my line of thinking, because rather than putting a bullet in my head, he places a business card in my hand. The letter D and a phone number is the only visible information.

  “One of our guys will wait with Skip. You go ahead and take off.”

  Before I can respond, the undamaged van speeds away with two motorcycles flanking the rear. I strain to see better and confirm a third rider is ahead of the van...precious cargo, apparently.

  The biker who provided CPR and Demon remain at the accident scene with me and Skip.

  “If you ever need a favor, any favor, you call me and I’ll do what I can to help,” Demon promises, surprising me. “What’s your name?”

  Too afraid to lie, I tell him, “Trina Templeton. I’m a nurse.” I shake my head, realizing I just repeated my job title.

  “Go on. Get going, Trina Templeton—the nurse. Max will finish up here.” He smirks.

  Gathering up my first aid supplies and tucking the card in my pocket, I follow his order.

  “Thanks, Demon. I hope your friend is okay.”

  Once inside my vehicle, doors locked, I glance back at him before starting the car. He catches me looking in my rear view mirror and gives me one of those manly chin lifts before swinging a long leg over his Harley.

  The bike roars to life, my signal to move on.

  As the memory fades, it hits me, tonight I truly am moving on, and I’m counting on Demon keeping his promise and becoming my guardian angel.

  When I first met him, on that secluded stretch of road, I had no idea I would be calling him seeking asylum from my criminally-inclined boss. I hope the big biker meant what he said, because I have no plan B or C. I’m counting on his help.

  I’m way too jittery to keep driving and make the call, even with a hands free system, so I take the first exit and stop at a gas station convenience store just off I-5, headed south.

  “Okay, here goes nothing,” I say to Scrooge, who’s snuggled up on my lap, under the steering wheel. He purrs harder.

  “Talk to me,” a gruff voice answers before I can change my mind.

  Still tempted to hang up, I force down my fear, something I’ve gotten pretty damn good at, and remember to introduce myself, “Demon? Uh, hello. This is Trina Templeton. We met—“

  “Trina Templeton, the nurse who saved Skip’s life. Of course I remember you. Calling in the favor I owe?” he asks, making things easier by getting right to the point.

  Not bothering to hold back, I spew my sordid story, barely stopping to take a breath.

  I leave out the initial assault and Dr. Martin’s identity but describe in detail the prank phone calls, strange notes, and feeling of being followed. He listens without interrupting. When I’m finally done, he remains silent, and I’m afraid he hung up.

  I wouldn’t blame him. My problems aren’t exactly the kind most people want to take on, but I’d hoped an outlaw biker might see things differently.

  “Sounds like you need protection,” he breaks the uneasy silence. “Ever heard of Seal’s Cove?”

  Who hasn’t? I almost say but refrain, swallowing a surprised gasp.

  For months, the popular seaside getaway served as the world’s primary crime scene, featured on every imaginable news outlet. People around the globe witnessed the mayhem unfold, waiting and wondering when it would all end.

  A missing heiress, her murdered mother, kidnapped father—who happened to be the town’s mayor, the deranged arsonist, the Hells Guardians and the Soul Scorchers, and a falsely accused ATF agent were all part of the madness, keeping people glued to their televisions and the Internet.

  After numerous false leads, the case was finally solved and the fires stopped.

  The arsonist, Pyro, a former Seal’s Cove resident and brother of the case’s primary ATF fire investigator, died in his hospital bed, never making it to the courtroom. Foul play was rumored to be the cause, but no one cared when his death was officially ruled heart failure.

  After watching men, women, and even children burn because of Pyro’s sick obsessions, not even his own prominent family pushed for an expanded investigation into his untimely ending. Instead, people actually celebrated. And I can’t blame them.

  Olympia Olsen’s story of escaping her house fire, losing her memory, disappearing, and returning home only to be abducted, assaulted, and forced to use heroin by another maniac who had aligned himself with Pyro, was the stuff you read about in a bestselling crime novel.

  Just knowing the hell she endured and how she’s now using her experiences to help other women makes me feel stupid for my own reaction to an attack by someone I was attracted to, an attack I hardly remember, even after all the nightmares.

  “Are you there?” Demon asks, his gruff voice slicing through my thoughts. “Seal’s Cove, can you make it down here on your own?”

  “I’m already traveling south, into Oregon. I’ll drive straight through.” I don’t bother telling him I’d go anywhere to escape Seattle, even a place with such a turbulent past.

  “I have a job for you too, if you’re interested. It no doubt pays more than what you were making and will make good use of your medical training.”

  For some reason, my stomach drops and does a funny flip-flop thing at the idea of this so-called job. He probably wants me to remov
e bullets and clean up other violence related injuries. The image of being surrounded by burly bikers sends my heart racing and my anxiety spikes off the chart.

  In light of my history, men in general make me uncomfortable. So the idea of living amongst a motorcycle gang isn’t my idea of sanctuary.

  “Trina, you’ll have one patient. That’s it,” Demon assures me, as if reading my mind, something he seems to be good at. “You will live with him in a private residence, on the beach. I promise. I give you my word. No harm will come to you. Mr. Richards is a respected man. I’ll explain more when you arrive.”

  I hear myself agree, wondering what exactly I’m consenting to.

  He did promise good money and protection. A beachside residence is tempting as well. I mean it could be worse. I could be facing my attacker at work Monday morning. At least this way, I will be far away, somewhere he’d never think to look for me.

  I hang up with Demon after he promises to text me the address.

  “Well, Scrooge. We have a place to live.” I realize as I say the words I hadn’t remembered to tell Demon about the cat.

  Too bad.

  My patient will just have to accept Scrooge goes where I go. I had to leave my belongings and my loft behind.

  With no family to depend on, I was forced to deplete my savings in order to cover the next several months’ mortgage payments. At least this new job’s salary will allow me to keep current on my bills in Seattle, although I can’t imagine returning after what I endured with Dr. Martin.

  Until the sick bastard is behind bars, I won’t be going anywhere near The Emerald City. For now, it looks like Seal’s Cove is my safe haven.

  I laugh at the irony, and Scrooge twitches, sinking his claws into my thigh.

  “Ouch! That hurt,” I scold, giving him a little push.

  He slinks off my lap and curls up on the passenger seat, refusing to look at me. I’m already missing his body’s warmth.