Sore subject.
Our family had a sad past and guns didn’t have a place in my life.
I closed the driver’s side door of my car and walked quickly toward the front entrance. I hated coming here so late at night. An uneasy feeling tingled the base of my spine and I turned around, half expecting someone to be standing right behind me. How odd. No one was there.
As I turned, I felt the sensation again and spun around prepared to launch pepper spray at anyone stupid enough to sneak up on me.
Nothing.
This was weird.
My eyes scanned the surrounding area, but it was eerily quiet except for the sound of muted bass and thumping music coming from the strip club across the street. Bright neon signs advertised Scarlet Syn as a gentleman’s club. Uh huh. Sure. And I was the Queen of England.
Gross.
Why were guys such pigs? I could hear them catcalling and whistling as a tall muscular man dressed in dark jeans and a black leather vest stepped out of the front doors. A look of disgust lingered on his face as he moved under the lights, his swagger all confidence and his body pure muscle. I was surprised to see his expression. After all, I figured most of their patrons enjoyed the atmosphere and lure of sex.
As I watched in curiosity, he lit up a cigarette and leaned back against the brick façade. I gasped at the handsome face glowing within an amber flame as he puffed and took in a long drag. Enchanting dark eyes met mine as he noticed I was staring in his direction. Blushing, I was just about to look away when I realized exactly who it was. That biker . . . R.J.
My eyes widened. He winked, taking another long pull before he exhaled into the wind.
He must have been able to see my surprise since he chuckled lightly. The sound echoed and drifted in the air like it was purposely carried directly to my ears. Goosebumps rose to the surface of my skin and I nearly shivered. My reaction had nothing to do with the weather.
Ignoring him, I walked into the store and bought the items I needed. Fifteen minutes later I was home and helping Charlotte care for Sophie. Once the fever reducer kicked in, my niece was asleep. My sister slept in the same room as me, on separate twin beds. We wanted Sophie to have her own space. Our two-bedroom townhouse was small, and we didn’t mind sharing. Once they were both asleep, I changed for bed and turned out the lights.
I tried to lay down, but I couldn’t relax. For some reason, I kept feeling the urge to return to that market. After tossing and turning for another five minutes, I decided to go back and convince myself nothing was wrong or out of the ordinary. I dressed and drove back to the market and deserted parking lot, my gaze instantly focusing on the club across the street and the dark shadow resting on the ground just out of illumination of the stre
etlamp.
Was that a body? Torn about whether or not I should approach, I bit my lip and almost decided to leave and call 9-1-1. After a brief internal debate, I crossed the street and approached, shocked to find the biker. He groaned as I fell to my knees, eyes wide as I saw the blood soaking his shirt.
R.J. was laying on the ground on his back, his large frame covering the sidewalk as one knee bent outward toward the road. I wasn’t sure how badly he was injured.
“R.J. can you hear me?” I lifted his shirt and found a deep laceration on his abdomen. Someone had stabbed him! “Oh, God. Shit.”
He mumbled under his breath and I couldn’t make out the words.
“Shit,” I repeated, pulling out my phone and dialing 9-1-1. This dispatcher was so calm it was disconcerting. She informed me that help was on the way and I hung up, applying pressure to his wound as she instructed.
“Angel,” he whispered as his eyes fluttered, and I leaned closer.
An angel? Was he hallucinating?
“R.J.?”
“Cara,” he moaned, shaking his head. “Don’t cry.”
I didn’t realize that I was until he pointed it out. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I thought of him dying right here on the street. It was awful. Who would do something like this?
“Stay with me,” I ordered, squeezing his hand. “You can’t die on me.”
He tried to laugh but I could see the pain etched in the lines and angles of his handsome face. He was breathing shallower and I was afraid he would die in my arms before the paramedics could arrive.
“What are you doing at a strip club?” I asked to distract him. It was a stupid question, but I really wanted to know.
“Angel . . . dance for me.” His laugh was off like he didn’t believe this conversation was real.
Maybe his reality was blurred. His blood loss was substantial.