“I’m good. I just wanted to check in and let you know I’ll be staying with Patrice this week. My phone took a shit out in the swamp, but I’ve got the burner that Blackheart sent to the hospital for me for now if you need me.”
Le Singe stood up too. “Okay, but let us know if you need anything.” He looked at Patrice then and said, “Ma’am.” Patrice looked like she wanted to tell him what to do with his “Ma’am,” but instead she forced a smile and said:
“I’ll take good care of him. You have a nice day.” The walk back to the car was less than pleasant and Gabe could tell by the way she threw the crutches in the back that the ride back to her place was going to be even less so. Knowing when to keep his mouth shut, he sat silently until they pulled up in the driveway of her house almost forty-five minutes later and she said, “I’m going to Maine. This is about me and my mother. I deserve to be a part of it.” Suddenly the pain in his leg was throbbing in his head. Leave it to him to find a stubborn woman. Her confidence was part of her hotness to him, but he was going to go through hell getting the rest of the club to agree with that.
14
Patrice’s little place was beautiful. She had it filled with comfy-looking furniture, plants, and artwork that Gabe suspected hadn’t been cheap. But he barely got a glimpse of any of it before she tore into her bedroom and started throwing things into a bag. He almost felt sorry for the jeans and blouses that were ripped from their neat positions on the hangars in the closets and tossed ruthlessly onto the bed. He stood in the doorway and watched her for several minutes before finally saying, “I’d like to go with you.”
She stopped what she was doing and looked at him, almost as if only just remembering he was there. “No,” she said, picking up a blouse she’d shoved into the bag and suddenly folding it gently. “You’re not in any shape for a two-day trip in the car.”
“Okay, then let’s fly. Blackheart is spending the night in New York tonight so he won’t be there until tomorrow. We can take a six-hour flight and probably beat him there.” She stopped her folding and looked back up at him. Her pretty blue eyes held a suspicious glint...eerily like the one his president got in his when he thought someone was taking him for a ride.
“He’s not going to be happy about me showing up. You’re willing to risk pissing him off at you for helping me?”
Gabe shrugged. He didn’t like the idea of Blackheart being pissed at him, but Patrice was going, no matter what he said or did and he couldn’t stand the idea of her going alone. She might not need him, especially in his current state, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing she was alone in Maine, chasing a potential “bad guy” who would push her mother off a balcony...and encountering the president of the Jokers, who was going to be madly pissed as soon as he saw her there. “He’ll get over it. I’m going. Even if you don’t let me go with you, I’ll fly out and find you. Le Singe will tell me where Blackheart went if I ask when you’re not around.”
“And why is that?” she asked, folding her arms. He’d renewed her anger, like throwing water on a pissed-off cat. “Because you people live in the dark ages and still think women are ‘too delicate’ to think for themselves?”
“I’m sorry, I know it seems that way. It’s just that the club is real traditional in a lot of respects. They don’t look at it like women are stupid or whatever...just that we’re protecting them from the bad stuff...”
“Oh, give it a rest. It’s the twenty-first century and trust me, there are a lot of women who could put anything any of you men in that club do to shame...”
“I’m not arguing that point, just trying to tell you how they think and where the rules come from.”
“I don’t give a shit,” she said. “This is my life he’s poking his head into and I’m not going to sit back like a princess in a gilded castle and let him be the Knight in Shining Armor. He didn’t even want to admit that he’d fucked my mother and made a child—I should trust him on this?” Gabe could see the tears swimming in her eyes and he began to realize her anger with Blackheart was about a lot more than his leaving her out. Somehow, Patrice had imagined things differently in her head, that Blackheart would open his arms and simply welcome her into his family. But that wasn’t the way it worked with Blackheart. Ever since he found his father dead, and killed the man he thought was responsible, any trust or respect anyone got from him was hard earned...even if she had his face. Gabe stood quietly and waited for her to calm down. Finally she took a deep breath and said, “Fine, I’ll call the airlines and see how early we can fly out in the morning. Can you find out where he went, exactly?” He wasn’t absolutely positive Le Singe would tell him now, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.
“Of course,” he said.
It took a few hours, and Gabe had to call Lowlife, who as the Road Captain was on the road with Blackheart. He pretended to just be checking in, letting them know he was out of the hospital, and leaving it like that would get him into even more trouble. But he had a driving need to help Patrice, so he was willing to accept his consequences for that; he just hoped Blackheart would forgive him. Patrice booked them a seven-hour flight from New Orleans into Portland. From there they’d have to rent a car because the town Blackheart and the guys were headed to was a little place about an hour and forty-five minutes from Portland known as Lincolnville. There was one post office, an inn, and a couple of restaurants in the coastal town, and apparently it was where Patrice’s mother lived before returning to New Orleans and dying.
Once that was all finished, Patrice ordered Chinese food in, and they were finally seated in her comfy little living room, eating, if not still silently. He tried to act completely interested in his food because he didn’t know what to say, but finally she seemed to shake off her anger and by the time she cleaned up the supper mess she was bringing him his pills and talking about setting him up so he could shower and she could change his dressing. Normally, he’d have a problem with being treated like a kid, but the idea of her helping him shower greatly appealed to him.
Patrice helped him back to the master bedroom and he watched while she went into the bathroom and laid out two fresh towels and what looked like enough supplies to change his bulky dressing. Then she leaned in and started the shower, holding her hand underneath the water to check the temperature until it seemed to satisfy her. Then she pulled a small trash bag out of one of the drawers and pulling up a small wooden stool she said, “Have a seat and let me cover that.” It was hard for him to reach the low stool, but he finally managed. Patrice covered his bandages with the plastic bag and used tape to secure it at the top and bottom. When she stood up she said, “You need help getting undressed?” He almost said yes, without thinking, but he didn’t want to push his luck.
“Nah, thanks...I can do it.”
“Okay,” she said with a smile. “But if you need help into the shower, or out of it...or anything...I’ll be right outside; just yell at me.”
“Thanks.” Already sexually frustrated, he let her help him back to his feet and watched her leave. He peeled off his shirt facing the mirror and was almost taken aback by the bruises and scratches all down right side of his body. He knew he was sore, but hadn’t noticed them; they had to be from getting tossed back and forth in his tangle with the gator. Next, he peeled off his shorts and boxers and then carefully, on one foot, he pulled the shower door back open and hobbled in. The warm water felt good on his sore body and for several minutes he leaned one hand into the tile and let the spray massage his skin. When he lifted his head he reached for the shower gel she had on the little caddy, noticing that it said “Spring Flower Fresh,” before popping the lid. His aching cock had begun to release the blood that accumulated in it before, until he smelled that. It was how Patrice smelled, like being out in the middle of a field of flowers, and he loved it. He poured some into his palm and when he tried to put it back on the shelf, it slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor, striking his sore foot before it bounced off and hit the tile under his feet. His strangled cry brought Patrice flying back into the bathroom.