A Hand of Spades

Chapter 5. Cash

My eyes shoot open, head throbbing. The events of the last twenty-four hours hit me like a gut punch.

How long have I been unconscious for?

I'm not on the floor of the garage anymore, but curled up on a grey velvet sofa in an office. I can still smell oil and rubber. Evidently I haven't been moved very far. I sit up, my whole body protesting.

"Thought you'd be out longer." A low, rumbling drawl comes from behind me. My head whips around to face the man, blowing cigarette smoke out the open window. It's the same guy who was watching me at the safe this morning; tall and broad with ashy brown hair. He's still wearing the same worn leather jacket I saw him in earlier. "Did the pain wake you? It sure as shit knocked you out."

I don't respond, frozen in panic. If I move fast enough, I might make it out of the room before he has time to react.

"Don't," He warns, reading my thoughts, "I won't be so forgiving if you run, darlin'." He ashes the cigarette against the window frame and flicks the butt out into the night. He takes a few slow steps around the desk and crouches in front of me on the sofa.

Instinctively, I feel my body curl inward, my injured arm tucked between my chest and my knees. He watches this motion carefully, eyes scanning every patch of exposed skin. His gaze - unlike Hoyt's - is not lecherous, but angry. He lingers on the purple skin of my wrist, my split lip, the bloody scratch along my thigh.

"Someone's put their hands on you." His tone is darker. He pauses, waiting for me to speak. When I don't, he continues. "You don't need to tell me who did it. You're scared enough to break into a Black Spade garage for a gun, that tells me everything I need to know about the kind of shit you're in. No one's that stupid unless they're scared shitless."

Again, he waits. I let him. I'm not dead yet. Maybe if I keep my mouth shut I can grab Blister and get out of here. Screw the gun, we'll take off; start over somewhere else. Mom used to talk about an aunt of hers in Colorado. Nancy, I think. They hadn't spoken in years. Maybe she'll take us in. Even if she could only accommodate Blister, I'd figure it out.

"If you tell me your name, I'll set your shoulder back in place for you."

My jaw nearly drops open. It's a tempting offer, an unusually kind one from a guy in a biker gang. I'm not going to get very far like with a busted shoulder. I definitely can't protect Blister very easily. Still, I'm wary.

"Aren't you going to kill me?"

"She speaks." A flash of a smile, almost as disarming as the one he shot me in the garage earlier today - the same smile that let me think I'd gotten away with noting down the safe combo. "No, I'm not."

I don't know why I believe him. Maybe because it's my only option. "Jane."

He nods. "Jane. You go by your middle name then?"

He definitely sees the panic bolt through me because he holds up my wallet, waving my ID in front of my face. "Just wanted to make sure you were telling me the truth."

I relax ever-so-slightly. "Yeah, I go by my middle name."

"There's a picture of a kid in here." My blood runs cold. He holds up Blister's school picture. The date on the bottom makes it impossible to pass it off as a younger version of myself. I don't say anything. "She yours?"

I stand up, he mirrors my movement, blocking the door with his large frame. "I thought you wanted my name. You've got it. Let me leave."

"You're not in a position to make demands, sweetheart." I scan the room for anything to wield as a weapon. The scissors, the stapler, the pencil - if jammed hard enough into the correct place at the column of his throat. "Sit down. I'm not going to hurt you."