"K," his voice grumbled into the phone, sounding half-asleep.
Half-asleep was good. Half-asleep meant he wasn't in his car flying down the highway to try to figure out what happened to me.
"Vermont," I said quietly into the receiver.
"What the fuck Maisy?" he exploded, suddenly fully awake.
"I know. I know. I'm sorry. I was sick. Literally delirious with fever for a full day. I was barely conscious. I'm sorry."
There was a short pause. "Okay," he said, calm again. "So your cover is still good?" he asked and I felt myself smiling. No asking if I was alright or how I got sick. Still no softness. Just some more sandpaper. I almost forgot how much I needed it.
"Yeah. Solid. Nothing to report really. All is par for the course."
"All the probates still in?"
"Unfortunately."
"Distinguishing yourself?"
"Haven't had much opportunity to prove myself. It's all grunt work."
"Alright. Check-ins on Tuesdays by midnight. If you can't sneak away to call me, send me a text with an eighty-six. I'll know all is fine and that you'll contact the next Tuesday."
"Sounds good."
"Stay safe."
"And kick ass," I finished for him, smiling as his line went dead.
I was still smiling at the wall as I put the burner down on the counter. Talking to K always helped. It always made me focus. Fact of the matter was, it was easy to forget why I was doing what I was doing. It got easy to fall into the lifestyle and let it eat at me, to lose sight of how necessary it was for me to make it work. K reminded me of that. He reminded me of the countless hours of him telling me just that. All the hours that he sat with me and told me that if they...
"Whose ass are you planning on kicking?" a voice said from the doorway, making me jump and turn, arm already cocked back before I placed the voice. It was almost the same instant that my eyes found Repo leaning against the doorway in black jeans and a white v-neck tee, arms crossed over his broad chest.
I felt my eyes go wide for a second, feeling caught, before I forced my features into a mask of indifference, reminding myself that I hadn't really said anything incriminating. In the future, I needed to be a helluva lot more careful.
"Anyone who gets in my way," I said casually with a small smirk.
Repo answered my smirk with one of his own. "Somehow I don't doubt that at all," he said, pushing off the doorway and moving into the small room.
He walked past me toward the coffee machine and started the process of making a fresh pot. His attention elsewhere, I watched him, taking in the paleness of his skin, the heaviness of his eyelids, the bruises under his eyes from tiredness. It struck me that while he had gotten into bed beside me the night before, I was pretty sure he hadn't slept. In fact, he seemed almost perpetually awake. It didn't matter what time I pulled a shift, he was always mulling around. And he always looked exhausted.
"Do you ever sleep?" I heard myself blurting out without thinking.
"Not often," he surprised me by answering honestly, hitting the button on the machine and turning to me. "How are you feeling? You probably shouldn't be up and moving around already."
"I'm fine," I said with a shrug. It was half-true. I still felt pretty crummy. My sinuses were clogged and I had a headache. But with the fever, chills, sweats, and body aches gone, I felt a heck of a lot better than I did. At his raised brow, I smiled a conceded, "I'm starving and dehydrated," I admitted.
"That's more like it. Sit," he said, waving a hand toward the small table. He turned away and went to the fridge as I sat, grabbing a bottle of water and a carton of orange juice. He walked over to the table and put them on the surface. "Drink," he instructed and turned away again.
"Bossy much?" I asked, unscrewing the water and taking a long swig that I swear I could feel sliding along all my dried-out organs.
Repo turned over his shoulder at me, giving me a small smile. "Hey, it's not my fault you're dehydrated. I think it would be easier to get fluids in a crocodile than you," he said, turning back to grab items out of the fridge.
I pressed my lips together, trying to figure out the protocol. He took care of me when I was sick. For that, I felt like I needed to thank him. But did badass bikers thank other bikers for being nice to them?
In the end, I figured, to hell with it. I was raised with manners. Regardless of the weird lifestyle I was in, I was going to use them.
"Thanks for looking after me," I said, my voice a strange, strangled sound. "I know I'm not a good patient. My fevers get out of control." I paused, biting into my lower lip as I prepared to do a little lying. "I get completely delirious and do things that I never would normally do."