Page 46 of Avenging Devil: Part 1

Shouting to let Grumbler know I’m heading out, I head straight for my bike. Whatever reason she wanted rid of me, the colour of my skin or the fact I wear a cut be damned. Something tells me she’s going to need someone, and all she’s got is me, so it’s me she’s going to get.

I don’t even think about it. All I know is that Saffie’s alone and going through one of, or even maybe the worst thing that can happen to a woman in her life. The loss of a child.

If she went to the hospital early, then she might already be home. Or do they keep women going through procedures like her in? I wish I knew more, but it’s her apartment where I go first. Privacy be damned or not, when there’s no answer to my knock, I pick the lock, and a quick check around shows me she’s not here.

Locking up after me, it’s back on my bike, and the hospital where I go next. I find the right department, but of course they won’t give me any information about her—if she’s here or whether she’s already been and gone. But they do answer my query—for a procedure as I’ve described, it’s unlikely she’ll need to be kept in.

Banging myself on the head, I realise I should have checked the parking lot first. I walk out, and there, at the back of the lot as if ashamed to be in the company of far newer and less scruffy cars, is hers.

I lean against the door, fold my arms across my chest, and settle in to wait, dismissing the notion of going back into the waiting room. If there’s to be a confrontation, I’d rather it was in private. With nothing else to occupy my time, I take out my phone and start playing a mindless game.

I’ve run out of lives and am just debating whether to waste some cash when I catch movement out of the side of my eye.

It’s Saffie. She’s a complete mess, her face red and blotchy. She’s holding her stomach and walking, or more correctly stumbling and lurching slowly across the parking lot, her uncaring progress making it seem like her world’s been completely shattered. My heart breaks, and my feet spring into action as I run over to join her.

In the depths of her misery, she doesn’t notice me at first. When she does, she looks up, then catches sight of my cut, and her face pales more.

“Saffie,” I start, imploringly. “Yeah, I’m a biker. Yeah, I’m in a club. But I’m no threat to you. I want to be there for you. You fuckin’ needsomeone,sweetheart.”

She turns away and starts to walk off. It’s as though anywhere away from me will do, as she’s already taken a few steps in the opposite direction of her car.

“Saffie,” I call after her, using my long legs to quickly catch up and move in front to impede her progress. “Please, Saffie, hear me out.”

Her eyes close, and her face turns downward. “Did Duke send you?” The question is voiced in a tone of surrender, as if she’s expecting a positive, but unwelcome, response.

“What?” I shake my head in confusion. “Duke? Who the fuck’s Duke?” My eyes narrow and my nostrils flare. “He a biker who hurt you, Saffie? Is that what this is all about?” I place my hand over my heart. “I swear on all I hold dear, on my family’s and my brothers’ lives, I have never met nor come across a man named Duke. Not in any MC.” I think for a moment, then add, “Or out of it to my recollection.”

Raising her face, her eyes open again. “You swear you don’t know Duke?”

“I swear.” I put my hand over my heart. I don’t know what more I can do or say to convince her. “Let me in, Saffie. Let me care for you.”

She looks so damn tired as her hands raise as if in surrender. She seems to slump, as though the reality of what she’s been through begins to overcome her fear of the cut that I wear, and whether she can trust my denial of knowing the asshole she seems to think I’ve got connections to. Tearful eyes rise to meet mine, a moment while she seems to have an internal battle, then after just one further slight hesitation, she’s in my arms, sobbing as though her world’s come to an end.

I hold her tight, trying to imbibe her with my strength. “It’s alright. You’re alright. Cry it out, darlin’.” For a moment or two, she rests against me, giving me almost her full weight as though her legs will no longer support her. I just hold her tight and repeat my meaningless words. I rock back and forth, as though comforting a child.

After a while, I ask, concerned, “Are you hurting?”

“Not really,” she replies through her sobs. “They… they gave me something. I still feel a bit woozy from the anaesthetic.”

The truth is, I have no clue what she’s gone through, what care she needs, or how to comfort her, but I can see she’s in no fucking state to drive.

“I’ll take you home.”

Again between heartbreaking intakes of air which exhale as sniffles, she gives a slight push and tells me, “I’ve got my car.”

I don’t allow her to break free but loosen my hold so she doesn’t feel trapped. “That’s good, as I’m on my bike. We’ll take your car. Saffie, you can’t drive. Surely the hospital warned you? If the anaesthetic hasn’t completely worn off—”

“I told them I was being collected.”

“And you are.” I give her a small smile, cupping her face and turning it up to face me. “By me.”

She stiffens slightly, but then sighs, completely defeated. “I want to go home.”

“Car keys?”

In answer, she holds out her purse to me. Opening it, I peer in, then gingerly stretch out my hand. After fumbling around, touching things I can’t even name, I eventually find them at the bottom of the bag. How women find keys in an emergency I’ll never understand.

Wasting no time, I need to almost fully support her as we move closer to her car, as if she’s mentally and physically given up. Once there, I open the passenger door and help her inside, leaning over to fasten her seatbelt. Then somehow, I manage to get my large form into the tiny driver’s space, pushing the seat back as far as it can go.

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