Page 24 of Fire Meets Fire

Queenie.How long has it been since anyone called me that? Normally I’d insist on my hard-earned handle, but what’s the point if I can no longer fly? It just makes a mockery of all I’ve achieved. As Queenie, perhaps I can strive to make a new life, one equally as fulfilling as the one I’ve lost.

I’m tired, physically and mentally. The thought of confiding in someone is tempting. But I can’t. I, too, soften my voice. “There’s no point telling you anything, you won’t be able to help. At worst it will put you into the sights of people you don’t want to be on the wrong side of.”

Joint chuckling comes from both of the men, Bull adding an amused snort. “We’re the ones feared, sweetheart, not the otherway around. Not many people are brave enough to take on the Wretched Soulz.”

That may be so, but they’ve no idea who’d they’d be up against. I might not know who exactly, but I’m pretty sure whoever it is is using ex-US Special Forces to carry out their dirty work. And I don’t want to share my story. These men might have more sympathy for my enemy than for myself.

“If you want to help, you can give me a lift out of town.” To the state line might be best, but however far I can go would be a good start.

Chaz stares at me for a moment, then his eyes lift and find Bull’s. They have a conversation consisting of chin lifts, head jerks and grunts. Having been around men for a long time I’m not surprised when Bull nods and, without explanation to me, exits the room.Leave us alone and maybe I’ll get more out of her. I interpreted.

Once the door closes, Chaz wastes no time asking, “How about I agree I’ll help you if you tell me all that you know?”

I don’t know how I recognise it, but I can see this stern abrupt man is bending for me. I don’t think he’s normally got much patience. A motion catches my eye. His fingers are strumming a silent rhythm on his desk, showing underneath he’s agitated. I admire the fortitude he’s displaying. This probably isn’t a man who suffers fools lightly.

What I don’t feel coming from him is any animosity, which is strange. He should consider himself the wronged party. While I don’t feel comfortable enough to share my whole story, I am driven to give him something.

Putting my hands on the arms of the chair, I push myself to my feet. This is a conversation I need to have moving. I pace to one side of his office then back, and give myself a moment before I speak, assessing how much I can divulge without harmingnational security. Then, inwardly, I laugh at myself.Why the fuck am I still worried about that?

First, I assuage my conscience. “I had to run. I’ve no access to my money. I soon found using it gave them the ability to track me. Eventually, I ended up here. Harold found me, took me in, and we came to an agreement. I fix his son’s motorcycle, and he provides board and lodging. For the first time in a long while, I could hole up and regroup.”

“You’re a mechanic?”

Without conceit, I reply truthfully, “If it’s got an engine, then I can fix it.” To his credit, he shows no sign that he doubts me. When he gives an imperious wave of his hand, I continue, “You refused to help Harold?—”

Interrupting, he scoffs. “That bike was a total write-off. Yeah, we could put it back together, but it would have been cheaper to buy a new one.”

Unable to argue with that, I give him a brief version of Harold’s story. I see his face go through a variety of emotions as I explain how the old man’s linking the restoration of that bike to his son regaining consciousness. Instead of sneering, I reckon Chaz is feeling empathy with the man who’s more dead than alive, compassion for another biker losing out to a bigger vehicle on the road.

When I finish, Chaz puts his hands to his face and rubs his cheeks thoughtfully. “You think his son will pull through?”

Grimacing, I shake my head. “Extremely unlikely. But getting his bike fixed is allowing Harold to come to terms with the situation gradually.”

“You don’t think it’s better for him to face reality?”

“What’s reality, Chaz?” I counter. “Who can say there’s nothing in Harold’s dream for his son’s recovery? Miracles have happened before.”

He stares at me thoughtfully, then raises and lowers his chin, then observes astutely, “But MacPherson isn’t paying for any parts that you need.”

“Harold’s bankrupting himself keeping his son alive. The medical costs are astronomical. I thought I’d try and do as much as I could without asking for money.”

Chaz snorts. “So instead, you stole from us.”

I shrug. “Yeah, but even you know the money you demanded was ten times the value of what I took. Most of the shit came off your scrap heap.”

“Nevertheless, you stole from us and thought you could get away with it.”

As his tone is calm and not at all angry, I chuckle softly. “I didn’t give a motorcycle gang much credit for stocktaking.”

“Club. Not gang.” He’s not disrespecting me, so I raise my chin, acknowledging the correction. Suddenly, he sits forward. “Tell me, what’s the main driver? You wanting to put a roof over your head or were you sucked in by MacPherson’s sob story?”

I take the seat again. “Until you went searching for me, Harold’s was a great place to stay. I was able to keep busy, and if I had one of my attacks, then I was safe.”

“Safe except when you were up on a beam in the barn shooting at us. What the fuck would you have done if you passed out then?” As I look down at my hands, his head moves side to side. “Fuck, woman. You’ve got less sense of self-preservation than a biker.”

My lips curve. “I was a helicopter pilot in multiple war zones, so…” I don’t bother completing my sentence.

Chaz stands now. He walks around the desk, leaning against the front of it with his arms folded across his chest. Standing emphasises his build, but he doesn’t intimidate me. It’s not desire or justified anger which I read on his face. Instead, he seems to have a genuine interest in me.

---