Zyah kept her arm around Player, urging him forward, but he balked at moving another inch. He didn’t want to die in front of her grandmother. He could taste blood in his mouth. The edges of his mind were so dark now, he truly was afraid he was going to die before Maestro got there. Desperately, he worked on that alternate reality, trying to be meticulous about arranging his bomb, holding his brain together until he was alone and Zyah was safe.
“I don’t want to scare her, looking like this.” He couldn’t get to his feet. He was still on his hands and knees, even with her arm around his waist. “The brothers will be here soon, and they’ll deal with me.”
“Who’s that with you?” her grandmother asked, her voice sharp. Demanding.
“Zyah. Look at me. I can’t meet her looking like this.” Player was beginning to feel a little desperate. He wasn’t going to make a good impression by vomiting all over her grandmother’s floor, and that was about to happen. “Go in and let her see you. I’ll be fine right here. She needs to know you’re all right.” He poured persuasion into his voice, knowing it wasn’t right, but not caring. “Best not to say anything about all of this yet.”
“He escorted me home, Mama Anat. He rolled over the hood of my car and hit his head on the concrete.”
He was already looking around for a bathroom. He was going to be sick, and the moment she let go of him, he was going to topple over, straight to the floor. He was already on his knees, so he didn’t have that far to fall.
The door between the kitchen and garage flew open and Maestro was there, his gun tracking, centered on Zyah as he took in Player’s head and the blood-soaked blouse wrapped around his skull. There was blood all over his face and shirt and more on his shoulder and bicep. Even on his hands and knees, swaying, his vision going in and out, Player still made an effort to shove Zyah behind him.
“She’s with me, Maestro,” he bit out between his teeth. “They were after her.”
“Zyah,” Anat called out, her voice quivering. “Come to me now.”
Zyah let go of Player and rushed out of the kitchen, ignoring Maestro and his weapon. Player would have hit the floor face-first if Maestro hadn’t caught him.
“Going to get sick. Get me the hell out of here,” he managed.
Maestro indicated a door just to his left and all but carried him. Movement rocked Player’s head until he was certain his brain was going to explode into a million pieces. The image was starting to become difficult to keep at bay. His stomach lurched, thankfully disrupting the making of the bomb he had so meticulously learned as a child. He’d made them and dismantled them over and over until he could do it in his sleep.
The moment Maestro propelled him those last steps into the small bathroom, he found himself hugging the toilet and emptying the contents of his stomach repeatedly. Maestro thankfully took his gun and stood guard over him because he was incapable of guarding anything. He tried several times to indicate for his brother to check on the women and clear the house just to make certain everything was all right inside, but Maestro refused to leave him.
Within a matter of minutes, two more Torpedo Ink brothers crowded in, their broad shoulders filling the kitchen in complete silence, weapons drawn, faces grim. Savage meant business, and it showed in every deep line and the cold death in his eyes. Destroyer was with him, that same look etched into his menacing features.
“We’re clear outside and only the two women are inside. Doc is here to look after Player,” Savage assured Maestro.
Player had never been so relieved to hear anything in his life. He needed to warn them all that his brain was reacting in a confused, lethal way and everyone around him was going to be in danger. They needed to get him clear, not only of Zyah and her grandmother but of the club as well. Unexpectedly, before he could, everything went black.
Player woke to the sound of voices. He was very confused. Cold. Shivering. His head exploding with pain. He had no idea where he was. Or did he? A bedroom, definitely not his own. It hurt to breathe. To try to think.
When he dared to take a breath, he drew in combined exotic scents he recognized instantly. He knew the earth and all the various fragrances. Woods. Scents. Exotics and those closer to home. Very subtle, but definitely jasmine, a very distinctive cinnamic-honey background and a cassisraspberry facet blending with the rich green floral mimosa he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind since he’d woken up from what he’d been so certain was a dream. Being surrounded by that scent now just threw him right back into that same uncertainty. His dancer. Zyah. Was she real? Was anything in his life real? He honestly didn’t know.
His head pounded. A jackhammer seemed to be drilling holes through his skull. He tried to surface all the way. His breath caught in his throat. He had to warn someone. Had to make certain they were going to get him away from everyone. He was dangerous when he had no control. Right then he definitely didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
“Stop fighting.”
He recognized Steele’s voice the moment he came close, but he couldn’t seem to pry his eyes open. Had they beaten the crap out of him again? Taken his skin off? Was the blood so thick his lids were sealed shut? He wanted to strike out. He didn’t know.
“Settle down, Player. I’m right here. You’re not going to hurt anyone.” Steele’s voice was reassuring. He was always calm in the middle of a crisis. “Maestro’s right here. Savage and Destroyer are outside watching the place in case the assholes come back. You need to hold still and let me take a good look inside your head and see what’s going on.”
“Can you really do that? Look inside his head? Shouldn’t you take him to a hospital and get an MRI?” A woman’s voice. He expected a child’s voice.
He was caught between the past and the present, but that had to be his dancer, Zyah, and her voice was filled with anxiety. Player couldn’t help but like that. But what the hell was she doing down in the dungeon with them? That must be why her scent was everywhere. The fuckers had gotten her in spite of his trying to stop them. Or maybe he was out of his mind again. He had to let Steele take care of everything when he was so far gone.
“You’re aware of certain psychic gifts, Zyah.” Steele’s voice was calm. Matter of fact. “I don’t need an MRI to tell me what I need to know. If I have to do surgery, I can do the surgery here, repair his brain.”
“Are you crazy?” Zyah’s voice dripped with tears. “He’s going to die. He’s bad. I’ve seen his brain. I can look into his mind. I can’t do surgery, but I can repair certain things. Even in a hospital, a brain surgeon might not be able to fix that damage. I had no idea it was that bad.”
“Zyah, leave the room if you can’t be quiet,” Steele commanded.
No one disobeyed Steele when he talked in that voice. Firm. Low. Definitely all doctor. Player felt him then, inside his head. Moving shattered pieces around. The pain was excruciating.
“Let go, Player,” Steele said.
Player tried to stay awake, to push at Steele, to tell him to take him away from all of them. He wasn’t safe. Couldn’t Steele see that? Steele only looked at his brain, not what was going on inside of it. He didn’t see the damage inside, where he was so fucked up he kept going back and forth between his childhood and present day. Between danger and safety. He didn’t know what really happened to him when illusion became reality.