Page 85 of The Meaning Of You

“What happened?” Jerry demanded when I retrieved it.

“There’s someone at the door. Hang on while I check.”

“Jesus, Nick. Be careful,” she cautioned.

“I’m thinking bad guys wouldn’t knock,” I countered as I struggled to my feet, holding on to the countertop for dear life as I tried to find my balance. More thumping shook the front door and I shouted, “I’m coming, for fuck’s sake. Keep your hair on.”

There was a pause, followed by, “Madigan? Is that you?”

“Who is it?” Jerry whispered.

“I can’t see.” I picked my way across the dining room, clinging to the table and walls until I could see around the corner. A shock of pink hair and a set of exceedingly pretty eyes.

“It’s Gazza,” I hissed into the phone, letting go of the breath I’d been holding. “Madigan’s apprentice. I’ve seen his photo on the website.”

The second Gazza’s eyes landed on me, they widened into saucers and I realised I had to look a mess. He snatched his phone from his pocket just as I opened the front door.

“If that’s the police you’re calling, it’s being handled. My brother is a cop.”

Gazza paused with his finger over the screen. “And just who the hell are you? And where’s Madigan?”

I grabbed the door for support and tried for a smile. “Long story, and I’m not sure it’s your business.”

Those pretty eyes narrowed to a glare. “Well, fuck that.” He shoved me and I stumbled backward, barely keeping my feet. “Start talking or I’ll add to whatever injury you’ve got without a second thought.”

I returned the glare as best I could. “It’s still none of your bus?—”

He took a menacing step toward me.

“But since Mads thinks the world of you—” I raised my hands. “—if you’d just let me finish this call, I’ll tell you what I know.”

He studied me for a second, then took a quick look around the interior of the house and stepped inside. His gaze landed on the pool of blood on the floor and he drew a sharp breath before cutting me a sideways look. “That better be yours.”

I liked this guy. “It is.” I turned to show him the back of my head and he winced. “Holy shit.” He turned my head back around and frowned at the bruising on my jaw. “You look like you’ve been in the ring.”

“I wish.” I held up my hand and put my phone to my ear. “It’s all good, Jerry. See you when you get here. I’m gonna have to fill this guy in before he eats me.”

“Damn right.” Gazza deposited his satchel on the dining table, startling when Shelby landed next to it. “Your cat, I presume?”

I nodded and pocketed my phone. When I looked up, Gazza was glaring at me with his arms folded. “The police are on their way, you said?”

I nodded.

“Good. And for Pete’s sake, sit down before you fall down. I’ll grab the first-aid kit and one of Madigan’s clean T-shirts.” He walked to the sink and wet a clean tea towel. “Here.” He lobbed it over. “Clean your face up with that. You can talk while I see to that wound.”

And that’s exactly what we did. I talked while Gazza cleaned and dressed the three-centimetre wound on the back of my head. It had stopped bleeding, which was something I supposed, and according to Gazza it looked clean enough. He was surprisingly gentle, all things considered. Not sure I would’ve been quite so generous if our positions were reversed.

Jerry called halfway through to say she was almost there and that Samuel was on his way, lights and sirens with backup following close behind.

When Gazza was done patching me up and I’d briefed him on the shitshow he’d walked into, he sat back in his chair and studied me from across the table. “Jesus, Nick. That’s one pretty wild story.”

I grimaced. “Wild but true.” I scrubbed my hands over my face, wincing when I reached my jaw. “And they took him, Gazza. They took Mads, and we have to get him back. I can’t just sit here and do nothing. Where are they?” I spun to the front door but the driveway was empty. “Can you do me a favour?”

Gazza eyed me speculatively.

“Mads said he left a copy of everything in the studio. Can you check?”

“On it.” Gazza was only gone a few minutes before he returned with a thick wad of papers in his hand. “He made more than one copy.” He slid the papers toward me, but when I tried to focus, the letters swam lazily on the page.

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