Page 139 of Roses Are Dead
Her eyes held rage.
I could tell by the set of her jaw that she thought I’d done this.
“She was naked when I found her.” The pause went on too long, so I filled in the gap. “I don’t give a shit about my shirt, but my coat is… well, not as important as she is, but they’re going to give me grief if I don’t ask.”
“Who’s going to do that?”
Who indeed? I’d blown off church. “No one. Sorry.” I doubted they would give two shits about me now. I sat back down, slouching against one of the columns that made up a corner of the room.
“Who did all that to her?”
“That asshole you guys are trying to save.” I pointed at the ceiling.
“Why?”
That was a great question. Jealousy? Fanaticism? An egomaniacal possessive streak like a certain biker who was a fucking idiot? “He’s a psycho, I guess.” It took one to know one. That lesson hit hard.
The nurse shifted the bundle in her arms and pulled out my coat, blood and all. She pinched it between her fingers as if it were going to bite her for touching it.
I held out my hand, waiting for her to walk the distance between us.
“Are you sure you want to keep it?”
It had Rose’s blood on it. The smell of ozone clung to it.
I nodded. “Yeah.” If that’s all I got to keep of her as a reminder of us, then I’d wear those damned stains with honor.
For as long as I could. Which would be tomorrow when Wolf came for my patch and everything tied to it.
A police officer stopped at the intersection of the hallways, first looking the wrong way, then he spotted me. His eyes took in my hair, the blood, my piercings, tattoos, the coat being offered, the blood on it, and you know what happened next, right?
“Hands in the air, you’re under arrest.”
Yeah. That.
I held my shaking hands above my head.
“What are you arresting him for?” The nurse stepped between us.
“Ma’am, step out of the way. This man is dangerous.”
“For your information, he brought both of the victims in. That’s called heroic. Get your words straight.”
He peeked around her at me. “Heroic? Him?”
The things that were going through my head were probably written in my scowl. If he could hear them, I’d be locked up for life.
The nurse turned her back on the cop and addressed me, “You need to be treated for those head wounds you got defending the woman in there.”
“How’s she doing?” I tried to stand up, but it was tricky with my hands held safely where the cop could see them.
“Considering she was struck by lightning? As well as can be expected.”
She was struck by lightning? My knees gave out, and I ended up on the floor again. This time, I stared at the ceiling. It was spinning.
“Timber. The big ones always go down the worst.” The nurse directed orderlies to get me on a gurney and wheel me into another curtain-lined room.
The cop trailed behind to “get my statement” and was promptly barred from the cubicle. I was attached to monitors and several people scanned my pupils and asked me to do dumb things like press on their hands with first one arm then the other. Somewhere in there, they asked for an emergency number to call. I bit the bullet and gave them the club’s private line.
