Page 3 of Rough & Ruthless

My thoughts drift without my permission. They land squarely on the massive biker who walked in last week. He was covered in dark ink, wore heavy boots, and brought an intense energy into my peaceful shop. He didn’t buy anything, not even the snake plant I offered. He simply stomped in, grunted his way through a short conversation, and then left abruptly to answer a call.

Still, I can’t stop thinking about him.

Night falls over Port Royal as I continue the daily tasks of cleaning the shop and double-checking my orders for tomorrow. The air turns dark, damp, and thick with fog. Typical Pacific Northwest weather. I step outside onto the sidewalk to lock the front door, taking two steps toward my apartment entrance.

The sudden, deafening roar of motorcycle engines slice through otherwise quiet evening.

I turn around to see a group of bikers tearing down the road, indiscriminately vandalizing the storefronts on Main Street. Bricks and heavy rocks are thrown haphazardly, damaging windows, siding, and doors. When I see what appears to be a Molotov cocktail, pure panic takes over.

The motorcycles get closer, the sound echoing in time with my frantic heartbeat. As they drive past, I drop to the cold ground and cover my head with my arms, seconds before glass shatters in every direction. My heart breaks right along with it. My custom front display window just imploded. I wish I had taken a picture for Marlowe.

A gunshot cracks through the foggy air. Harsh shouts echo off the brick buildings. The sickening sound of fists meeting flesh follows.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push back the darkness threatening to swallow me, but it’s no use. I’m no longer on the cold sidewalk. I’m back in a dilapidated Denver trailer. I’m hiding in my small closet while my parents fight. They fought worse when they were high or drunk. It was utterly terrifying when they fought the local dealers out to collect their debt.

One specific memory claws its way to the front of my mind. I called the police because I thought my father had finally killed my mother after a particularly loud and violent fight. The cops took a full hour to arrive, which wasn’t unusual. No one wanted to be in the Alpine Grove trailer park, especially law enforcement.

By the time the police showed up, my parents were perfectly calm. My mom was drinking a beer on the couch, watching some reality TV show. Granted, she was wearing a heavy sweater and a baseball cap to cover the bruises and cuts littered across her body, but no one wanted to ask further questions. After the police left, my mother turned on me and threw her mostly full beer can straight at my head. It left a throbbing knot and soaked one of my only three outfits in sticky alcohol.

I blink my eyes open, dragging myself out of the sad, pathetic memory of my childhood. The immediate chaos outside begins to move down the street. I push myself up with trembling arms to assess my ruined shop, only to see a massive shadow lunge toward me.

I let out a sharp yelp as terror spikes my veins. Then I recognize him. It’s the towering biker from last week. Is he part of the gang that ruined my store and all the others lining the street?

One look in his eyes lets me know he’s not here to harm me. The man might be tall, muscled, and gruff, but he wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t know how I know that, but the certainty washes over me, calming my nerves ever so slightly. He holds me by the shoulders to steady me, his assessment fierce and intense. I’m frozen in place when his calloused thumb grazes my cheek. He pulls his hand back, his thumb stained bright red.

A low growl bubbles up from deep in his chest. He grabs my hand and begins dragging me toward his motorcycle parked at the curb.

"Stop!" I protest, stumbling behind him. "I need to clean up! I need to board the window! My shop was just vandalized!”

He doesn’t slow down. Instead, the giant biker tightens his grip.

I plant my feet firmly on the asphalt, refusing to be bossed around by a man I barely know. Not anymore. The sudden resistance causes him to jerk backward.

"I’m going back inside," I insist, my voice calm but stern.

He turns to me, his dark brown eyes simmering with tension and a wildness I can’t quite comprehend. "I can’t protect you in there."

I should be suspicious of his motives. I know that. But hearing someone express a desperate desire to protect me touches something incredibly deep inside my battered heart.

I pivot slightly, playing into his obvious hero complex. "I at least need the first aid kit inside to clean myself up."

He relents, though he keeps a firm grip on my hand as we step carefully through the broken glass into the back room. He takes the small white kit from my hands, nodding for me to sit on the stool.

I watch in stunned silence. This brutal, possibly dangerous man kneels before me, gently dabbing away the blood from my superficial glass scratches with focused care. His frown grows deeper every time he finds a new cut, as if each one is a personal offense. Is he this thorough and surprisingly caring with everyone? My heart does a stupid little flip at the thought of being the only one who has seen this side of him.

My mysterious biker finishes tending to my wounds, then takes both of my hands in his large, rough palms. His dark brown eyes search mine, a heavy desperate look piercing right through me.

"Some bad people have infiltrated this town," he warns, his voice a low rumble. "They’re targeting my club's business, and their temper tantrums finally spilled into the streets. Your shop was just in the crossfire. That’s why I need you to come with me. I don’t know when they’ll be back."

His words are brief, his sentences short and to the point. Still, I feel completely overwhelmed.

“What the f… freaking fudge is going on here?!” Dang, I really thought I was going to swear. I’d have every right to.

The man furrows his brow, probably making fun of me in his head. I don’t blame him. He looks like he eats a dozen raw eggs for breakfast and steel beams for lunch. I bet he knows and uses every kind of filthy word out there, and here he is, stuck with a full-grown woman who can’t even cuss when her livelihood is on the line.

“My inventory is ruined,” I continue, as a million other thoughts crash through my brain. “I have client orders to fill in the morning, my plants are left exposed to the cold night air, and… and my window. My beautiful window…” It’s hitting me all at once. I’ve exhausted myself with building my dream floral shop, putting myself in debt while working tirelessly to make sure everything is perfect. And now…

My breath comes out in choppy gasps, my lungs never fully filling with air. Tears spring to my eyes, but I blink them away, refusing to fall apart in front of this man.