Go With It E-Book

Scarlett Finn

• Herausgeber: Moriona Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

What happens when the conman collides with the good girl?

“Go With It”

That’s what I was told, but believe me, I’m starting to wonder if all of this isn’t more trouble than it’s worth.

My new life in the city was supposed to challenge me. Little did I know that the biggest challenge I’d face was out sassing the conman who can’t keep his hands off me.

Honestly, you’d think that saving his life would’ve been enough. But, no, of course not. It’s not enough for Ryske.

He won’t be happy until he’s had all of me.

Every inch.

All to himself.

Except I’m no fool. He’s a “promise-me-nothing” kind of guy and my ridiculous heart is already trying to sync with his.

I’m an idiot. An idiot. I should’ve let him bleed out. Just walked away and left his world before it became mine. But, it’s too little too late. I’m in it.

I have a feeling that fortunate fall, our felix culpa, will be the undoing of both of us. 


Warning: Contains explicit language and imagery. Suitable only for ages 18 and over.

**Book 1 of 5, HEA, no cheating, series complete**

Leseprobe

Copyright © 2019 Scarlett Finn

Published by Moriona Press 2019

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

First published in 2019

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. It may not be used to train AI software or for the creation of AI works.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.scarlettfinn.com

GO NOVELS

Go With It

Go It Alone

Go All Out

Go All In

Go Full Circle

Read them in order for maximized reading pleasure.

For other titles from Scarlett Finn, please read on after the story.

Click here if you’d like to leave a message for Scarlett.

Enjoy!

CONTENTS

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

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21

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25

26

27

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31

32

33

34

35

36

1

HARLOW SWEETING WAS ready for bed. Her first Saturday shift as the on-call family support officer had ended a couple of hours ago. Though that hadn’t meant any reprieve for her exhaustion. In her line of work, time became fluid. Leaving the family she’d been helping just because the clock had run out wasn’t an option.

So being ready for bed had little to do with being able to curl up and close her eyes. Instead, she found herself trailing down a cold, dark street in the small hours of the night, making her way home one step at a time.

Her profession was more of a lifestyle than a vocation. No timecard could switch off its importance. There was no getting up and walking out just because she’d completed her allotted number of hours. People’s lives were more important than clocking out.

Social service work was hard. Harlow had ventured onto the path of her current profession in high school. At a career fair, she’d discussed her interests with one of the advisor’s who’d told her that social work suited the “confluence of her needs” and was a “natural evolution of her interests.”

Following the advisor’s suggestion, Harlow had done some research and decided it was an occupation where she could make a difference. After college, she’d joined a suburban division and stayed there until her recent move.

No one chose social work for its simplicity. But suburbia had not been a hotbed of need.

The last thing she wanted was a job that only required her to go through the motions. More. Harlow wanted more and had been ready to leap out of her comfort zone… no matter how big the challenge.

A challenge was exactly what she’d been ready for when she made the decision to move from the easy, less demanding suburban department to the tough inner city. Much as she’d loved her colleagues and many of her clients in her previous position, there had been nothing to sink her teeth into. In short, she’d gotten bored. Transferring to a deprived urban area and taking up a post with child and family services made sense. To her anyway, her family were less understanding.

The last thing that she wanted to do was concede that they might have been right. Harlow had thought she was ready for more. Truth was, she’d had no idea how difficult it would turn out to be. Reading about desperate scenarios in books was nothing like facing them in real life. Sometimes it felt like her heart was breaking every day.

Working with vulnerable children drove her. Protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves was a worthy cause. No matter how difficult she found witnessing or hearing about what they endured, she reminded herself that they were the ones enduring it. All Harlow had to do was listen and care, not live it every minute. Supporting the youngsters in their time of need, giving them a chance to realize their potential, was the least she could do.

Urban kids were savvy and street smart, even more so than her. Experience showed her how important it was to be confident, even when she was horrified. Being in the field, dealing with people hands on without fear, taught her more than she could learn from textbooks.

That didn’t mean she’d given up the book learning. Harlow was a strong believer that there was always more for everyone to learn. In addition to her day job, she was doing an online criminology degree in what little spare time she could scrape together.

Harlow hadn’t had the time to go back to traditional college. It hadn’t helped that her parents had refused to pay for a second degree, probably because they didn’t support the first one she’d chosen. And they weren’t the only obstacle either. The man she’d been in a relationship with at the time saw her decision to study as a hobby rather than a way to challenge or better herself.

But it turned out that she didn’t need anyone’s support, just her own resolve. Her first degree allowed her to work and pay for her continued education herself. Doing it on her own meant she could be proud of the achievement no one had helped her attain.

Completing the course online took twice as long as traditional channels. Relief had come when she entered her last year. At last, she was on the final stretch. The extra work had been worth it.

Looking back, she could see that embarking on the course had probably been a prelude to her move into the city. Her need for something more challenging and dynamic hadn’t come from nowhere.

Although, studying was a half-measure.

The course allowed her to read about and research dramatic, often tragic, situations full of thrills and excitement. Exactly the kind of stimulation that had been missing from her daily life.

Life had gotten harder after making the choice to move to the city. No doubt about that. Her parents hadn’t supported her breaking her engagement or making so many life changes and had vowed to cut her off. Even though they hadn’t paid her any sort of allowance for a long time, Harlow had lived in their house until moving in with her fiancé, and again after that relationship ended.

Leaving Rupert, and the safe suburb where she’d grown up, to strike out on her own was an achievement in itself. This was the first time in her life she was doing it all on her own. She could only rely on herself, and was proud of her financial independence, which wasn’t something her sibling could boast.

Walking down the dark street in this dilapidated neighborhood, there was no one around, but Harlow couldn’t say she was sorry to be by herself. Colleagues had warned her not to walk down certain streets alone, and this was one of the ones they’d named.

Still learning her way around, Harlow hadn’t meant to come this way, but had been too tired to pay attention to the direction of her feet. Getting home was the only thing on her mind and her apartment was six blocks away.

Much as she wasn’t paying close attention to her route, her autopilot had been smart enough to steer her away from Floyd’s, a bar that was notorious for its less than savory clientele and numerous dodgy dealings. That was at least one small mercy.

Harlow smiled.

Her parents and sister wouldn’t be able to comprehend what her life had become. Sometimes she couldn’t comprehend it. No one in her family would be caught dead on a deserted street in the middle of a crime-ridden neighborhood well after midnight.

The odd thing was, Harlow didn’t feel fear. Empowerment was what flowed through her. She was proud of herself. Shunning her upbringing hadn’t been easy; few people would understand why she had done it. But on nights like this, when she was filled with a sense of purpose and pride, she remembered why the difficult path was so attractive.

Breathing in, she sighed into the calm of this beautiful night that was just perfect for a walk, even if the setting wasn’t serene or romantic. Losing herself in her thoughts, Harlow took stock of where she was in life and where she might want to be next. She didn’t get too far into that train of thought.

Everything that happened next, happened fast.

Crossing the mouth of an alleyway, drifting on her mental distraction, she didn’t hear the rush of footsteps that must have preceded the impact of the body that hit hers hard.

Someone had burst out of the alley and crashed straight into her. Whoever he was, he only just managed to catch her as they went into a tumble onto the sidewalk. Somehow, he had the presence of mind to twist them in the descent so she landed on top of him.

But he didn’t pause. Flipping them over, he put her on her back and pounced onto his feet in a crouch.

“Get him!” someone called.

The menacing voice bounced off the walls of the narrow alley making her assailant steal a quick glance over his shoulder to check the route he’d just travelled.

Lying stunned on the pavement, Harlow couldn’t breathe or compute until somehow she noticed there was blood soaking through his shirt. “Oh my God, you’re hurt,” she said, scrambling up.

The moment she found her feet, the stranger pulled her down again just as a series of bangs reverberated from the alley. Gunshots. That sound. It could only be gunshots.

In the cocoon of his crouch, nestled between his bent legs with his body sheltering hers, Harlow couldn’t register how fast her night had become a fight to keep her life.

“Got a weapon in that purse, Trinket?”

The bass of the deep voice shook her before she could figure out that it had come from the man bracing himself around her. “I… I… a… no.”

The click, click sound of an empty weapon came closer. “Good thing he’s out,” the voice said. “Ditch the heels and bolt.”

The stranger. Her attacker and protector. Was he telling her to run? The man was alone and possibly bleeding to death while his enemies bore down on them, and he was telling her to split? That didn’t gel with her instinctive urge to help those in need.

“You’re hurt,” she said, trying to see the blood on his shirt. The way his form was guarding hers left her in shadow and too close to see his injury. “You’re bleeding.”

“Bolt.”

Certain as he sounded, Harlow was more certain that she wouldn’t leave anyone alone in danger. “Like hell,” she said, shoving away to free herself from his shielding crouch.

Thrusting to her feet, she skirted around the stooped man, putting him behind her. It was her turn to protect him. Facing the alleyway, she prepared to confront whoever might emerge from it. The stranger could have been right about the gun being empty, but the people who faded from the darkness into her view weren’t unarmed.

Five guys strode from the shadows, mean and impatient. They wanted something from the bleeding man who’d sunk onto his knees on the asphalt behind her.

“Move, lady, we’ve got business to finish,” one of the alley guys said.

The stranger had shifted onto his knees. Seeing the movement had made her twist her head, so she hadn’t spotted which of the men was the speaker.

Whoever the man behind her was, he wasn’t in a good way. Harlow wanted to offer comfort, to call for help. Except, that was impossible while this threat was still looming.

Putting thoughts of the stranger’s possible demise to the back of her mind, she steeled herself to challenge the gang. “Not a chance,” she said, raising her chin with a defiant hair flick. “You’ve hurt him already. You’ve made your point.”

“Long as he’s breathing, I’ve got a point to make.” One of the alleyway gang moved closer to spearhead his group. “I’ve got orders to end him.”

“And I’ve got a point of my own to make.”

The alleyman sneered, probably thinking about how easy it would be to move her aside. “And what’s that?”

Now she had to come up with something. “If you want to end him, you’ll have to end me too.” Maintaining her defiance, Harlow didn’t so much as blink. Strength was crucial. “And, believe me, sir, people will notice if I go missing. You do not want to screw with the people who’ll come looking for me.” This was a battle of wills and she would not lose. She would not. Tilting her head to the side, Harlow showed more determination. “Do you have orders to end me too?”

Though he did his best to disguise his concern, she could tell she’d pressed one of Alleyman’s buttons. Ignoring her hammering heart, Harlow kept her eyes locked on his. His tense lips moved in a show of frustrated aggravation. A breath later, she felt him stand down.

“Your girl’s got your back, asshole. She won’t be around to save you next time.”

Whoever Alleyman was, he spat on the ground beside her and turned away, spinning a finger, indicating to his posse that they should head back the way they’d come.

Harlow kept watching until the shadows had taken them again. The moment they were gone, she whirled in a descent, ending in a crouch. Examining the man who hadn’t stood since she’d left his shelter, Harlow feared his injuries could be grave.

Flopping forward, he barely managed to brace the weight of his upper body on his hands. It took him more than a few tries to lock his elbows. Scraping his palms on the asphalt, he crawled on all fours to the wall just on the inside of the alley. Wilting, he slumped against the brick and rolled on his shoulder until his back made contact with the structure.

Rushing over, Harlow scooped a hand around the back of his head. His eyes were rolling in his skull, unable to focus. Feeling the pulse in his neck increased her concern. It was there, but it wasn’t strong or steady.

“Oh, God,” she exhaled, letting him go to dig around in her purse that was hanging across her body, resting in her lap. “Don’t worry, I’m calling 9-1-1, I’ll get help—”

His hand shot up. The weight of it landed on her purse, pulling it down, and crushing her hand inside. His heavy eyes still weren’t focused. “No, no calls,” he grumbled, his voice weakening. “Floyd’s.”

Her lips parted in a quiet gasp. “I… I can’t go in there, it’s dangerous.”

A feeble smile touched his lips at the same time his eyes closed. “You just stood up to Hagan’s goons,” he said and coughed, his teeth gritted in a tight grimace of pain. “You can handle Floyd’s.”

There were too many thoughts to comprehend; she couldn’t focus, couldn’t make a choice. How could she get this guy who had to be at least six three up onto his feet and to a bar that was a block and a half over? Who was Hagan? Would he or Alleyman be back?

Forgetting about the people who’d done this, she triaged the problems. No matter what, she couldn’t leave this stranger here alone, not when he was seriously hurt. The most pressing matter was his life; that had to be her only focus.

He hissed, trying to pull himself into more of a seated position. “Shh,” she said, stroking him from his face to his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

The red stain on his tee-shirt was growing into a darker hue. Swallowing hard, Harlow moistened her lips a few times, gathering the gumption to pick the fabric up so she could see the state of what was beneath.

The moment she did, she wished she hadn’t.

“Fuck,” he grumbled and winced in a recoil.

Just above his hip was a gash that was still spouting new blood. “Oh my God,” she said, tugging off her scarf to scrunch it and push it hard against the wound.

She had no idea how he’d got hurt like this, though she had an idea about who was responsible. It frustrated her that he was refusing to go to hospital and she couldn’t begin to figure out why someone would want to avoid the place that could save them.

Despite all the unknowns, one thing was clear as day. The time for speculation and indecision was over. If she left him there, he’d die either way.

“That good, huh?” Doing a double take, Harlow realized the stranger was reading the seriousness of the situation from her expression through his scarcely open eyes. “You’re hot, Trinket. Does a guy get a last request?”

“Not tonight, Crash,” she said, shifting closer to loop his arm up over her shoulders. “I can’t believe you’re on the brink of death and trying to put the moves on me.”

She struggled to pull him from the wall. It took a few attempts and to get more traction, she had to press his hand onto the scarf to give him responsibility for stemming his own bleeding.

The stranger hissed again, holding the scarf against his wound. “I’m a guy with the right priorities.”

He might be able to make jokes, but she didn’t find this situation funny at all. “You’re going to be okay,” she said, putting his mischief down to the effects of blood loss. “We’re going to get you to Floyd’s. But you’re going to have to help me. I can’t do this alone.”

That made him breathe out. “Up?” he asked, bracing, despite the obvious pain behind his clenched expression.

“Up,” she said, pleased that she’d managed to focus him. “On three.”

Getting him onto his feet was only the first obstacle. Harlow learned fast that muscle weighed a lot more than it looked. This guy was no quarterback, but his body was solid, athletic in its ability, and definitely muscular.

His being healthy would work in his favor; he’d need all the help and luck he could muster to get out of this.

Guiding him out of the alley, they spanned the sidewalk and managed to get across the street. One step at a time, Harlow counted each as progress. This was the right block, but they still had to get to the corner and walk to the furthest end to get to Floyd’s, which, if she remembered the pictures she’d seen in her research of the neighborhood, was on the opposite corner.

The stranger’s shuffling steps were slowing. “What do I get?” he grumbled, maybe as a way to stay conscious.

“Get for what?” she asked, spitting her hair from her mouth, trying her best to keep her legs straight though his weight was beginning to crush her.

“Helping you out.”

“Helping me out?” she said, and realized he meant getting him to his feet and moving. “You get to live.”

He groaned. “Not good enough.”

Keeping him talking was a good idea. The uncertainty of his slowing walk was less concerning than the slurring of his speech. His head drooped, lolling on his shoulders; he wasn’t even looking where they were going. Each of his movements was blind. It seemed he trusted that she was taking him in the right direction. Though, in this state of vulnerability, he couldn’t put up much of a fight against any threat.

She’d say anything if it would keep him conscious; Harlow couldn’t do this without his help. “What is it you want, Crash? Because it doesn’t seem you’re up to the challenge of a woman like me right now.”

The faint mumble of his laugh became a grunt of pain. “Feel free to take advantage when I pass out.”

“No,” she said, pulling his arm further around her. “You’re not going to pass out, Crash. Stay with me.” All the wishing in the world didn’t prevent the inevitable. Her stranger slumped further, making her stagger to the side. “Shit, you’re heavy.”

Sweat dampened her forehead. She could feel her hair sticking to the back of her neck where it wasn’t being pulled by the leather of his jacket.

“You…” he slurred. “I…”

Determined to traverse half the block, they got around the corner but were still the length of this full block from the bar. Supporting him was getting more difficult by the second. The weight of his body shifted.

Blowing out the strain of his burden, Harlow struggled just to stop without falling over. “Crash,” she said because she didn’t know what else to call him. He’d crashed into her, so the moniker seemed appropriate. “I can’t… are you…”

Falling against the wall of the building next to them, he didn’t spend any time leaning and instead slid down onto the sidewalk.

The sight of his loose body crumpling filled her with dread. It was obvious he had little control. If he was unconscious, that was it, there would be nothing else she could do.

Desperate and terrified, Harlow dropped down beside his slumped figure. With a hand on his chest, she shuffled nearer and scooped his head up. His stubble was rough on her palm, but when she relaxed her hand, his head flopped.

His eyes were closed.

Picking up his head again, she tried to give him a shake. “Hey,” she said, slapping his cheek.

Getting no response, she hit him again, a little harder. It was useless. He was no longer conscious.

Unwilling to give up, she grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, shaking him. Nothing happened. There was no sign of life.

Snatching her blood stained scarf from the ground next to him, she pressed it to his wound.

Panic surged through her. This man was going to die right there on the concrete if she didn’t do something. “Oh, please,” she whispered, crawling closer to stroke his face. “Please. Wake up, please.”

The stranger didn’t move, didn’t respond. His pallor set fear alight within her. That spark of emotion ignited her fortitude. Harlow wouldn’t let this happen. She wouldn’t sit whimpering while he slipped away. Without fail, she’d always let fight win before she thought about giving in to fear. Resolve consolidated the mess of emotions warring within her. Action. She had to do something. She had to take action.

Surging to her feet, she left him there and ran down the rest of the block at full speed.

Shoving into Floyd’s, she burst into the busy room, immediately drawing the attention of all those sitting around drinking. Looking left then right, she didn’t even know who she was seeking, adrenaline drove her forward.

The bartender was already turning toward her. Dubious concern and suspicion gathered on his face as he scanned her. She could feel thick blood drying on her hands and was sure her clothes were covered in it, but she didn’t care.

Panting, Harlow tried to catch her breath and gather the energy to speak. “Please,” she said, beseeching the bartender. “Please help him.”

His chin rose slowly. “Him? Him who?”

“Here,” she said, taking a backward step and gesturing for him to follow. “Please, he’s outside. Help him.” In reverse, she retreated all the way to the door. Though there were more people out of their seats, and more looks of confused doubt, no one was following her. Frustration became anger. It erupted from her chest. “Get your fucking asses out here now!”

The desperation of her furious plea was enough to snap the bartender to attention. He disappeared around the corner of the bar, but reappeared at the same corner a moment later, this time on the customer side. Coming toward her with determination in his gait, two others materialized to flank him, matching the pace of his stride.

Harlow didn’t loiter. Rushing outside, she hurried back down the sidewalk. Relief infused her when she found her patient where she’d left him. Crouching beside him, she put pressure on his wound and was stroking his face when the men from Floyd’s joined her.

The first she became aware of them was a voice cutting through the night air. “It’s Ryske,” the voice said. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the bartender on the phone. Of the two men who’d been with him, only one remained. The other had disappeared. “Definitely blue.” He lowered the microphone from his mouth. “Is he out?” She nodded. “How long?”

“Less than five minutes,” she said, feeling so protective that she twisted to prop a shoulder on the wall next to her unconscious friend. Easing Crash away from the cold concrete, she caught his deadweight and cradled his head against her chest. When she peeled her scarf from his wound, he didn’t even flinch, which scared her even more. “He’s lost a lot of blood. He wouldn’t let me call 9-1-1. I tried. I wanted to, I…” Biting her lip, it didn’t matter that she knew her sudden emotion was irrational, she couldn’t control it. Harlow didn’t even know this guy, yet grief was gripping her. “I should’ve done it, shouldn’t I? I should’ve called 9-1-1.”

The second man was about a half inch taller than the bulky bartender but was much leaner. Both were fit, leaving her to wonder if everyone in this neighborhood hit the gym.

“No,” he said. “Definitely not. You did the right thing bringing him here. No 9-1-1… Let’s see it.”

Both men came in closer and the bartender lowered the mouthpiece of the phone again. The leaner one nodded toward her hand that was holding the scarf to the wound. Though it pained her to peel back the fabric again, Harlow wanted these men to help. Revealing the injury to the bartender and his companion, she blinked up just as they winced. The bartender turned his back to keep talking into the phone.

Harlow held the patient close, stroking his hair away from his forehead. “You’re going to be okay, Crash. You’re going to be okay.”

The second guy hunkered down next to Crash, wearing an odd kind of smirk. “Asshole,” he mumbled and socked Crash’s knee with a light punch. “Even unconscious you snag ‘em.”

The act was peculiar. Although she couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to punch or taunt an unconscious person, it made Harlow more protective. Holding Crash close, she used her body to block as much of him as she could. Whispering words of comfort, she tried to ignore the man crouched close to them.

Just as she was about to throw him the evil eye in hopes of getting him to back off, a car came skidding around the corner. Harlow tightened her embrace, praying this wasn’t anyone coming to finish the job they’d started.

The bartender and the punching guy weren’t concerned when the car came to a screeching halt in front of them. They opened both doors on the passenger’s side, front and back, while the driver climbed out to come rushing over to her. Punching Guy stuck with the driver while the bartender stayed by the vehicle.

The bartender was off the phone and apparently the one in charge. “Get him up.”

The driver and Punching Guy did as they were told, jostling her aside to pick up Crash from the sidewalk. Punching Guy hooked his forearms under Crash’s arms, while the driver took his legs.

“You have to maintain pressure,” she said, moving with them to press on the wound for as long as she could.

It pained her to back off. The driver put Crash’s legs into the backseat and ran around to open the opposite door to pull him inside. Punching Guy kept control of Crash’s upper body. Harlow couldn’t tear her eyes away. She feared what would become of the stranger once they took him.

“Don’t worry about that, Nightingale. You’re going to be there to keep our boy going,” the bartender said, putting a heavy arm around her shoulders.

“What?” she asked, but was given little choice.

The bartender urged her toward the vehicle and Punching Guy stepped aside once Crash was bundled into the backseat.

“Get in the car.”

Punching Guy went around them to get in the front passenger seat while the driver leaped back in his side.

Putting a hand on her head, the bartender pushed her down, crowding her into the back. “But I…”

Almost sitting on Crash, Harlow had to grab his head up just to stop herself from landing on him.

“Keep him alive, Nightingale,” the bartender said, pushing her in and slamming the door. “He’s counting on you.”

The second the door was closed, the bartender hit the roof twice and the car sped off, giving her no choice but to scoop up her patient’s shoulders to lay his head in her lap.

Harlow was no nurse, except she was sure that if the bleeding hadn’t at least slowed by now, the patient probably had no chance of making it. But for lack of anything else to do, she put pressure on the wound and looked out the window, wondering where the hell she was going and what could possibly happen next.

2

THEY DIDN’T DRIVE for long.

Half a dozen blocks later, they took a corner on two wheels and sped to the end of the block, coming to a skidding halt at the curb.

Adrenaline and fear kept Harlow going, but she couldn’t think clearly enough to ask questions. Another man was waiting on the sidewalk to yank open the back door the moment they stopped. Autopilot made her help the trio of men pull the unconscious man from her lap.

Sidewalk Man jumped to action, helping them up the stoop. Harlow didn’t remember the stairwell or entering the apartment. She was still trying to figure out what was going on or how she’d found herself there when Crash was laid on a bed in a bedroom so normal that it made the moment all the more surreal.

Sidewalk Man barked orders at the other two who were doing exactly what they were told.

Crash was stripped to the waist while Sidewalk Man, who it appeared was now in charge, went to a walk-in closet and came out with what Harlow was sure was an IV stand and a supply of blood.

“Get his pants off,” Sidewalk Man said, shoving her aside.

As though he’d just noticed her, he paused for half a beat to frown at her, like he was trying to figure out who she was. Harlow wasn’t sure she’d be able to tell him if he asked because this seemed so unlike her life that she wasn’t sure she was her anymore.

After that fleeting moment, he jumped back to action. The other two were pulling off Crash’s boots, while Sidewalk Man bent to stick a needle into his arm. Both hands went to her mouth in an attempt to stifle her gasp. The act was so quick it seemed barbaric. Though, as shocked as she was, Harlow did feel an element of relief when she realized the patient was getting the medical attention he needed.

If there was any hope of Crash’s life being saved, it was going to happen in this room.

Most of Sidewalk Man’s body was blocking her view. But from his position, it appeared like he was examining Crash’s wound. “Someone want to tell me what happened?” he asked.

The two men who’d just removed Crash’s pants shared a look with each other. When they didn’t respond, she felt obliged to say something. “I—”

“Nothing,” Punching Guy said, cutting her off with a glare. “Just a mishap. You know how it is, Bale… Can you fix him?”

“Depends. How long has he been out?” Again, no one answered. The guy they’d called Bale raised his attention first to look at the two men standing at the foot of the bed. When he got nothing from them, he twisted to pin her in his sights. “The more I know, the more I can do.”

“No more than twenty minutes,” she said, earning herself a glare from the pair who’d closed ranks.

Bale focused on her. “Was he talking before he lost consciousness? Coherent? Oriented?”

That was difficult to answer when she didn’t know what Crash was like under normal circumstances. At a bit of a loss, she opened her mouth, searching for a response. “He… he was hitting on me.”

Punching Guy scoffed and the driver shook his head. “Sounds like Ryske.”

So Ryske was Crash? That was his name. “Do you know who stabbed him?” Bale asked.

Noting the professional edge to his tone, it felt like maybe this was what he did for a living. Given that he had all the necessary equipment, Harlow figured he had to be some kind of doctor.

The question was a shock. “Stabbed?” she asked, having not spent time speculating on the cause of his injury. “He… was stabbed? Oh my God.”

Wobbling on her feet, she didn’t realize her lightheadedness had transferred to anything physical until someone took her arm. Lifting her focus, she found Punching Guy at her side, holding her elbow.

“Just do your thing, Bale,” Punching Guy said, guiding her toward the bedroom door. “Noon will help with whatever you need.”

Unable to argue or fight, Harlow staggered sideways when Punching Guy opened the bedroom door and pulled her out into a darkened living room. He tugged her to the couch and left her standing between it and the coffee table while he went to check the front door was locked.

A chill went through her. Shrugging off her daze, Harlow took stock. She was alone in an apartment with four men—well, three and a half—and all of them were strangers to her. No one knew where she was and no one would know where to look for her.

Clutching her purse higher to her chest, she took a step backwards. “Who are you people?” she asked. “Why did he tell me not to call 9-1-1?”

In the moment, she’d been acting on instinct and impulse. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask questions. The man was bleeding out; all she’d thought about was helping him.

With startling clarity, Punching Man’s response brought things into focus. “We’re criminals,” he said, without compunction, coming toward her.

Trying her best to conceal the tension that began to clench her muscles, Harlow didn’t let herself recoil. The man in front of her wasn’t fazed despite offering such honesty. Neither did he hesitate to offer her a hand like providing his lifestyle choice was a standard introduction.

“You’re—”

“They call me Maze. Noon, he’s the conscious one who drove the car. Ryske’s the unconscious one who hit on you. Dover’s the guy from behind the bar in Floyd’s. Bale’s the doc in the bedroom who’s going to fix our friend right up.”

Surprised that this Maze was being so open, she was nervous to shake his hand. Although, having been raised to be polite, she couldn’t refuse it.

Remaining wary, she slipped her fingers into his palm. “Harlow.”

“Nice to meet you, Harlow,” he said, flashing her a smile that was just a little too suave for her liking. “You did our boy a solid tonight. That means we owe you…”

He didn’t complete the sentence, and it seemed to be a deliberate choice. She could feel it hanging thick and unfinished in the air. “I…”

“Before we get to what you want from us, you have to tell me what you know… You tell me everything and no one else.”

That statement was daunting in itself. This guy seemed to be a professional intimidator. Harlow hadn’t known that was a crime, but she was beginning to rethink that assumption.

“No one else?” she asked. “I don’t—”

“Ryske didn’t want you calling 9-1-1 because cops ask questions. They’re suspicious of guys who show up with stab wounds.”

Sure, she imagined that they would be. This Maze had been kind enough to at least be honest about their profession, though she couldn’t say it put her mind at ease. In fact, it raised more questions. Before she could respond, there was a knock at the door.

It was no normal knock. The sequence of different tempoed notes formed a tune. One which obviously meant something to Maze because he reversed to the door he’d just locked and opened it without even checking who he was granting entry to.

The bartender.

Dover. That was the name Maze had given for him.

Dover examined her while Maze locked the door again. “Who is she?” he asked, like she wasn’t there.

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” Maze said, moving to his cohort’s side… though “accomplice” may be a more accurate descriptor.

“Ryske gonna make it?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet either,” Maze said. “Noon’s in there.”

Dover nodded once. Both men started toward her, riveted in their focus. “You think she’s one of Hagan’s?”

Maze didn’t get the opportunity to answer because she did. “I am not Hagan’s,” she asserted, offended by the notion. “His men were the ones who did this to Ryske. If I hadn’t stepped in, they’d have finished what they started right there on the sidewalk.”

Dover turned to look at Maze, who didn’t say anything. Rethinking why the bartender had told her that he was counting on her to keep Ryske alive, Harlow began to get the impression that had been a con to keep her around until they figured her out.

“She fake named me,” Maze said.

Her jaw fell. A sound of offense squeaked in the back of her throat. “I did not fake name you,” she squawked. “My name is Harlow and I’ll prove it.”

Yanking open her purse, she rooted around and pulled out her wallet to retrieve her ID. The moment she held it up, Maze leaned forward to take it. Noticing how he took his time about scrutinizing the card, she regretted being so rash in producing it.

“IDs aren’t hard to fake,” Dover said, stepping forward to guard his associate who was less than discreet about pocketing her ID. “I’ve got a dozen of those in a drawer.”

If these two thought she was going to be a pushover, they had another thing coming. “Yeah, because I’m sure your name’s really Dover and Maze is the name his momma gave him,” she said, thrusting one hand to her hip while the other opened to them. “May I have my ID back, please?”

“Sure,” Dover said, moving to the side while Maze moved the other way, so the latter was shielded behind the former. “Just as soon as our colleague verifies your story.”

“Your…” Stunned, her hand dropped. “Crash?” She shook the moniker they wouldn’t recognize off her lips to replace it with the right one. “Ryske? You want to keep me here until Ryske can verify my story…” Incredulous was hardly enough to describe what she was feeling. “You’re not serious… he might never wake up.”

“And if he doesn’t, that’s bad for you,” Dover said.

“I haven’t told you what happened,” she said, but they didn’t seem interested in listening. “What do you think happened? Do you think I stabbed him? I didn’t even know him before tonight! I still don’t know him!”

Her plea didn’t affect either of them. They went back to talking as though she were deaf. “If she’s Hagan’s, we shouldn’t have brought her here,” Maze said into Dover’s ear.

Dover’s chin swung toward his shoulder. “I wasn’t going to leave her on the sidewalk. Ryske would be the first one to tell us to keep the variables under control.”

Until that moment, Harlow had never considered that word to be an insult. “I am not a variable,” she said, losing grip of her patience, which, at work, she had no trouble holding onto. Outside of work, she didn’t have to worry about being professional. “I saved your friend’s life! I didn’t have to. I could’ve left him there on the sidewalk to bleed out. I could’ve called 9-1-1 and ignored him telling me not to! You guys might not like it, you might not trust me! Hell, I don’t trust any of you! But I did a good thing tonight! All of you should be on the floor kissing my damn feet! You’re the criminals! That’s your choice! I am not on trial here! I do not answer to any of you! And I will not be threatened for saving your boy’s ass!” Marching to them, she shoved Dover aside and opened her palm to Maze. “Give me my goddamn ID.”

Maze looked past her, probably at Dover, who must have nodded because Maze retrieved the ID from his pocket and handed it over. “Ryske’s always been able to pick ‘em,” he muttered.

Ignoring what that implied, Harlow stopped short of saying that Ryske hadn’t picked her at all. The convergence of their lives meant that they’d happened to occupy the same space at the same moment in time. Neither of them had planned to crash to the sidewalk together.

Offended as she was by their treatment of her and the things they’d said as though she wasn’t there, Harlow wasn’t afraid of the oafs sharing this room with her.

Her lack of fear had a lot to do with her philosophy on life. Harlow believed a person was in control of their own destiny and that they had to take responsibility for their own choices. Given her training and experience, she could size people up with relative accuracy.

By their own admission, these men were criminals. Yet, no one had threatened her with violence. Other than Maze taking her out of the bedroom, no one had touched her. Whatever they were capable of, they hadn’t raised her DEFCON level.

The bedroom door opened before another word was uttered. Bale came out pulling latex gloves off his hands.

Dover went toward him. “What’s the word?”

“Bowel’s intact far as I can see,” Bale said, going into the kitchen to trash the gloves. “He was lucky.”

The bedroom door was open. The guy they’d referred to as Noon was filling the frame, frustrating her view of the man who’d be in the bed behind him.

“Will he make it?” Maze asked.

Bale got a bottle of water from the fridge and took his time about opening it to drink before answering. “He lost a lot of blood. I’ll run more in, give him some antibiotics and pray the wound isn’t infected. I’ve irrigated it, but there’s no way to know how dirty the blade was. I’ll keep him sedated tonight, let him get some rest. I can’t tell if there will be any lasting damage… unless you let me take him to the hospital.”

Dover was the first to make a noise of disapproval. “You know the rules, Bale.”

Harlow didn’t know the rules, but she didn’t care about rules. Especially ones that could end with people dying. The same feelings of protectiveness she’d had on the sidewalk welled up in her again.

Seeing her cases through to the end was something she prided herself on. Harlow didn’t abandon clients, no matter how tough things got.

“Would you like to see him, miss?” Miss. It took her a second to realize that she was the only female in the room; the only “miss” here. Her rubber-necking couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Blinking at Bale, who was coming toward her, she started to nod. After registering her response, he adjusted to move toward the bedroom again. “Get your ass out the lady’s way.”

For a second, Bale stood facing off with Noon. Eventually, the man in the doorway sidestepped, giving Bale space to go back into the bedroom. The doctor stopped and gestured for her to follow.

While heading to the bedroom, Harlow was aware of Dover, Maze, and Noon huddling in the living room behind her. The importance of whatever they had to whisper about surpassed their concern for her and Bale being separated from them. Though given that the trio were blocking the exit, they’d know if anyone tried to sneak in or bolt.

Forgetting the distracted posse, she focused on seeing Ryske. Laid out on the bed, peaceful, with tubes in his arm and a loose dressing just resting over the wound on his hip, this was the first time she’d seen him in full light.

Compelled to get closer, Harlow moved to the edge of the bed and sank down beside him without caring about respectable distance. Stroking his hair away from his forehead, she admired his features. Dark hair, square jaw. Even while unconscious with a grave expression on his face, there was a kind of mischief that fizzed around him.

In the dim alleyway, she hadn’t got a good look at him. There, in Bale’s bedroom, the light from the nightstand lamp let her see that there was a bruise above his brow and another on his shoulder.

Concern made her pale fingers open on his chest. “Was he beaten up?”

Behind her, the doctor was doing something on the dresser with supplies. “Ryske knows how to fight,” Bale said. “How to handle himself. If there was a fight, you can bet he gave as good as he got… providing that was the plan.”

That made her stop caressing the injury on Ryske’s shoulder to turn to the doctor. “The plan?”

A slight frown tensed his preoccupied brow. “I have to finish cleaning him up,” he said and nodded to the side, indicating that she should move out of his way.

In addition to what he’d been arranging on the dresser, there were various other medical supplies laid out on the nightstand. Bale put something with them and then dragged a tub chair from the corner over to the side of the bed. Sitting down, he went to work on Ryske.

For the first time all night, Harlow could breathe. “Are you a doctor?”

“I am,” Bale said without taking his attention from his task.

Looking at Ryske’s wound was making her queasy, so Harlow turned away and went to the window. The blinds were closed, but she used a finger to peek through them to the quiet street below.

“Are you a criminal too?”

He exhaled what could only be described as a laugh. “Every time I get a call from these guys.”

The insinuation that just being around Ryske and his cohorts implicated them all made her uneasy. “I should’ve called 9-1-1, shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Did Ryske tell you not to?”

“He did,” she said and closed her eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking. He was there, bleeding in front of me, telling me not to call and, I don’t know, it seemed like the right thing to do in that moment.”

Part of her work involved building trust with individuals who were suspicious of authority. She’d often kept secrets or listened to people who wanted to get things off their chest. Respecting people and their wishes, even when they contrasted with her own beliefs, meant something to her. Judgment wasn’t a part of her role, she had to be open-minded to those who did things she never would.

Thinking that maybe her acceptance was going to cause Ryske’s downfall, she began to question whether she’d made the right choice.

“If Ryske told you not to, then you did the right thing,” Bale said. The certainty in his voice intrigued her enough to turn. The doctor was busy with his work, so he probably didn’t notice her scrutinizing him. “Ryske knows the plan.”

Again with the plan. “What is the plan?”

Bale shrugged. There was a smile in his voice when he next spoke. “I don’t know. I’m about as close to Ryske as anyone outside his crew can be, but he’d never think to fill me in on whatever the con is.”

This night of surprises just kept on giving. “The… con?”

As if he’d sensed her astonishment, he paused to look over his shoulder. His gloved hands hovered over the wound he seemed to be dressing. “How long have you been sleeping with him?”

Ducking forward, she forgot to blink. “What? With Ryske? I… I’m not sleeping with him.”

That seemed to heighten his curiosity. “Are you worth a lot of money?”

This conversation had gone in an odd direction that left her confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He’d loosened again. “Just wondering if you’re the con,” he said and went back to his work. “You weren’t the one who stabbed him, were you?”

She bit her lip instead of rolling her eyes. “No.” Though maybe if she’d gotten to know him better, she might have been tempted. The man was unconscious and managing to cause her aggravation. “What do you mean I’m the con?”

“I was exaggerating… sort of,” he said. “Ryske will do almost anything for a job, but I’m sure this is a step too far, even for him. Though it’s not the first time he’s been stabbed, so if this was for a con, he knew what he was in for… Course it wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken things too far either.”

Going to the end of the bed, she was astounded by the man lying on it, and wondered what had brought him to her. His athletic body had been pressed into her while she’d tried to coax him to Floyd’s. That’s when she’d learned Ryske was in shape. Seeing him now, wearing nothing but a pair of dark boxer-briefs, his ripped physique was more conditioned than she could have imagined.

A black tribal tattoo arched around his uninjured hip in sharp curved claws that stretched across his defined abs. Covering half his abdomen, it stopped just beneath his ribs. Adorning the shoulder opposite his abdominal tattoo was another tribal design. This one cut across his collar bone and continued down to his elbow and forearm. Beneath the claws that extended beyond his elbow was a wide black wristband tattoo of zigzags and what looked like arrowheads.

Her curiosity about what the ink meant peaked when Bale picked up Ryske’s wrist closest to the center of the bed, presumably to check his pulse. On the back of that forearm, extending from elbow to almost his wrist were four thick black stars. They had to stand for something. Harlow was sure of it.

The doctor put Ryske’s arm back down and went back to his work. Not finished with her inspection, Harlow noted that just under his watch was the only piece of jewelry he seemed to be wearing. A narrow, rounded braid of black leather circled his wrist. At the front was a dark metal cylinder that seemed to be engraved.

Tipping her head, she squinted to try reading what the bracelet said. “On his wrist, what does the—”

“Carpe noctem,” he said and then translated the words. “Seize the night.” Harlow had known what carpe noctem meant, but didn’t interrupt. “That’s Ryske, and maybe explains why he’s got scars all over.”

It seemed that the doctor had picked up on how curious she was about the patient. Though given that he was still working, she didn’t know how he could. Finishing with what he was doing, Bale reached over to curve a hand around Ryske’s leg. Rolling the patient just a little, the doctor showed her the outer side of his patient’s thigh where there was a healed scar.

“How did—”

“That one’s a stab wound.”

Either this was Bale proving his previous point, or him trying to warn her about the man she’d saved. “A stab wound?”

Nodding, he pushed Ryske’s starred arm up to show a thin slice of a scar front to back on his ribs beneath his arm. “That was a bullet, just grazed him, but still bled bad.” Putting his arm back down, Bale began to clean up the supplies. “I’ve patched ‘em all up at one time or another.”

After putting the used and dirty things aside, he took a blood pressure cuff from his bag that was on the nightstand.

“You’re their doctor,” she said, trying to figure this whole warped scenario out. “But if they’re criminals, why would you—”

“It’s a long story, and not one I want to tell,” he said.

She wasn’t quickly dissuaded. “You implied you weren’t part of his crew.”

“I’m not,” he said, then breathed out. “I guess I’m peripheral. I don’t doubt that they have a lot of people who help them out. But Ryske, Dover, Noon, and Maze, they trust each other and only each other.”

“That’s the crew? The four of them?” she asked. Bale nodded, going through his checks. “And they con people? Rich people? That’s what they do?”

He stopped to look at her. “If you want to know more, you should ask Ryske.”

Quizzing the doctor was putting him in an awkward position. There was no sense of fear coming from him and he’d stood up to the crew in the living room. But Harlow had no idea how these men got the doctor to look after them. The last thing she wanted to do was endanger him in any way.

“Thanks,” she said, hoping Ryske would make it through to tell his tales, even if she wouldn’t be around to hear them. “But now that I know he’s safe, I think I should probably just go… if his buddies will let me leave.”

Wearing a smile, he returned his focus to his patient. “Don’t worry about them. No one’s being falsely imprisoned in my apartment. If they try to restrain you, I’ll call the cops myself.”

Bale seemed normal, rational, sane. In short, not like the men in the living room. It was nice to have an ally.

With the reassurance she’d be allowed to leave, Harlow took what could be one last look at the patient. “Is he going to be okay, Doctor?”

“There’s no rush for you to cut ties. No one here will hurt you and Ryske will want to thank you. Why don’t you go home, get some rest, and come back tomorrow to check on him yourself?” The doctor was more than sane, he was warm and kind. “Some sleep wouldn’t hurt and I think you could probably do with cleaning up.”

Scanning her, his smirk grew before his attention returned to his patient. Harlow had forgotten about the blood on her clothes and on her hands. Bale was right, she should clean up, and she did need rest.

“Okay,” she said, without lying to herself that she wouldn’t be curious about Ryske. Follow up was part of her job too. Checking on a person she’d helped was engrained in her. Harlow wanted to keep on helping Ryske, despite his less than savory choices. “You’re sure that would be okay? He’ll be here?”

“The Floyd’s crew trust my medical choices,” he said. “Best case scenario, there’s no organ or brain damage from the blood loss, but Ryske will still have to heal, and finish the course of antibiotics. I’ll be keeping him here for at least two weeks.”

“Two weeks? You think you can keep him here that long?”

“I think if he goes against medical advice they’ll lose their doctor pretty fast,” he said. “I take a huge risk treating them like this. If something goes wrong, I lose my license, possibly go to jail, and have to live with the guilt for the rest of my life. They know I’ll keep doing everything I can to help them, providing they respect my professional opinion. That includes convalescence instructions. I’ve fought with them about this too many times. They know I win or I won’t be here the next time.” He flashed her a fast smile. “This is not our first rodeo, Miss…”

“Sweeting,” she said, hearing the question in his voice. “Harlow Sweeting.”

“Do you have a boyfriend waiting for you at home, Harlow Sweeting?” She shook her head. “Kids?” Again, she shook her head. “Good. Do you live alone?”

“Why does that…”

“I’m checking how wide the circle is,” he said. “I just told you that what I’m doing could get me into trouble.”

As a doctor, it was his responsibility to treat the person in front of him. Just as she’d felt it was her responsibility to support the person in front of her when Ryske had bowled her over in the street.

Decisions made on impulse weren’t always the most reasoned, or easy to explain later when someone was trying to rationalize them… like in an interrogation room.

“Your secret is safe,” she said, wondering if she could get into trouble for what she’d done too. Technically, nothing she’d done was illegal, but unethical could cause her problems in her professional role. “If mine is safe with you.”

His smile became more genuine. “Creeping around with criminals not your usual bag?”

Relaxing, she returned his ease. “Not exactly.”

He stood up, removing his gloves. “Then I guess you’re part of their toolkit now too, just like me,” he said and came over, raising his open arm to her shoulders. “Welcome to the club. Come on, I’ll get Noon to drive you home.”

“Noon? I don’t need a ride.”

Pausing with a hand on the bedroom door handle, he smirked. “Noon does the driving… always.”