“Oh come on, anyone can see your…buddy?…is an overgrown golden retriever in a Doberman body.” She rolls her eyes, and I can’t look away from the way her thick eyelashes frame them. Dark brown and expressive as fuck, they’re the sort of eyes poets talk about when they reference eyes being windows to within. Hers definitely are, and I’m falling before I have the chance to register it.
“Most people don’t see that when they look at him. How do you know Malachi again?” From what they both said earlier, they were strangers before this, but he was so taken by her, I have to be sure.
I love Malachi like a brother and have spent the better part of a decade keeping him alive and helping him heal, but he developed some personality hiccups as a result of the traumatic brain injuries he suffered during his time in the military. One of them being a tendency to hyper fixate on people or things that fascinate him. Like a child with a new obsession, Malachi could have spotted her and built an entire imaginary world where they’re besties. Or more.
So while part of me angles to find out as much as possible about this woman, another part of me assesses whether there will be a problem. Because if Malachi is hyper fixating on her,he’ll have to quit. Immediately. Because I’m pretty positive obsessing over Tegan Farris is my new thing.
“Like I’ve already said, we don’t know each other. I just moved to to town. I was leaving work, and when the elevator doors in the parking garage opened, there they were. And it’s not my fault if people can’t see past your buddy’s looks to see the puppy he actually is. Now, if you don’t mind answering a couple questions for me, I’d like a turn,” she says primly.
She looks from me to Hyram before finally meeting Thyrie’s stare. Something unspoken passes between the two of them—some female bonding moment maybe. Who knows? Hyram, demonstrating a level of perception I’m unaccustomed to seeing from him, wraps his arm around his ole lady’s waist and tugs her back toward the door they just came through.
“We should hit the cafeteria. Get some food and coffee while they’re piecing him back together, yeah? How long you think, Vin?” Hyram asks.
“Probably another hour, maybe a little more. From the reports I’ve looked at, the break is clean, though it’s compound and came through the skin.” Translating medical jargon into regular person words is a skill I’ve honed over the years, and it’s really handy at times like this. The others don’t need to know all the precise minutiae, but I know as our prez, Hyram needs the general overview, privacy laws be damned.
“Okay. You’re off duty now, right, Vincent? Can you and the girl stay here? We’ll bring back food and coffee for everyone.” Hyram doesn’t bother looking at Tegan, expecting me to to hear the directive in his question. And to obey it.
“The girl has a name. And you can ask her yourself.” Thyrie elbows Hyram in the ribs, none too gently. His ears go pink, but I know better than to let my amusement show. Tegan, however, has no such limitation, and she giggles at the byplay between my prez and his woman.
It’s a good thing she doesn’t look offended, or worse, scared of my club brother. If I have my way, she’ll be spending a lot of time around him in the future.
Chapter
Six
Tegan
Nothing much happens in the hours following the arrival of Malachi and Doctor Charmden’s friends, Hyram and Thyrie. The doctor also tells me to call him Vincent. He talks with Hyram, who he calls Prez, about what information he knows. I talk with Hyram’s girlfriend—wife?—about what I remember happening.
When Malachi is wheeled back in, groggy and disoriented as the anesthesia wears off, Hyram and Thyrie step in to keep him entertained while subtly pumping him for what he might remember. Vincent clears his throat, and I find he’s watching me instead of the patient.
“You said earlier you might be able to give a description of the men who hurt him?” He nods toward the bed.
“I can do better than that. I can show you this.” The decision to show Vincent, and by extension the rest of them, my drawings feels right. My gut is saying it’s safe to trust Vincent, just as clearly as the same instincts warned against trusting those cops who were here.
“You drew these? Can I show them to Hyram and Thyrie?” His eyes are wide with shock as he flips through the comic-style pages that lay out the scene I witnessed before landing on the portraits of the assailants.
“Fuck. I think I know these guys. At least…this one, maybe?” He flips the spiral cover back gently and turns the drawing to face me. I know I’m the one who drew the face, but the cold, dead stare of the man in the picture has goosebumps prickling over my skin.
“You’re sure this is one of the men?” he asks, his eyebrows nearly disappearing behind the dark, tousled hair that’s lost any attempt at whatever style it might usually hold. In the short time I’ve watched him, I’ve seen him card his long fingers through the shining curls enough to know it’s a habit he must do when his emotions run hot.
I just nod because obviously, I’m sure. How else would I have known to draw the guy? I already told Vincent I just moved to town and started a new job.
“Hy, come look at this motherfucker. Tell me where you know him from because I’ll risk my medical license if I say his name.” Vincent and Hyram stand shoulder-to-shoulder staring at the image I drew until Thyrie tugs it from Vincent’s hands to get her own peek.
“That bastard. Did you draw him like this because he looked at you this way?” she asks me. I nod again. While the comic style I used to remembered the scene might include some artistic license to make a point, I drew the portraits like photographs. They’re realistic enough that just seeing them now gives me anxiety.
“That means he looked at Tegan this way,” she says to the men. Her words are slow and deliberate, as if she’s explaining something to a preschooler.
“Which means he got a good look at her,” Vincent drawls, slowly, as her point dawns on us all.
The three of them turn to stare at me, and I glance down at myself. Through the spatters of Malachi’s blood and who knows what other grossness on me after everything that’s happened, we all take in the art store’s logo over my right breast, and the nametag still pinned over my left.
“Tegan,” Vincent says.
“They know her name and where she works,” Hyram adds.
“And she sprayed this guy with bear repellant—badass move, by the way, new friend. So she’s not safe,” Thyrie finishes.
