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“Now, let Rowan go.”

Juice doesn’t comply at first and George takes the shotgun that he has pressed up against the back of Juice’s skull and nudges him hard. Juice slowly unwinds his arms from around Rowan’s waist and she shoots out of his grip, running to my side.

The two goons immediately back away, their arms out slightly to the sides. I watch warily as Rowan crouches beside me, her face awash with fear. Her hand comes up and she grazes her thumb softly against my jaw, possibly the only place I had not been hit.

“Rowan... you and your fella get over here behind me,” George says.

Rowan stands up and tries to pull me to my feet. My ribs scream in agony as I stand but it doesn’t stop me from putting my arm around Rowan’s waist and leading her to George.

Giving another hard shove with his shotgun, George pushes Juice toward his cronies. He turns to look at George and murder is reflected in his eyes.

“You just fucked up, old man,” Juice sneers. “Nobody crosses me.”

George only laughs at Juice. “You think a two-bit punk who walks around with thugs because he’s too scared to take on someone himself bothers me? You’re pathetic and I suggest you get out of here because my trigger finger is getting a little twitchy.”

Juice doesn’t make a move to leave and neither do his goons. I suspect they have guns on them and they’re figuring out how to get the drop on George. I instinctively push Rowan behind me, anticipating an unloading of bullets in the near future.

George calmly keeps the shotgun trained on Juice and reaches into his pocket with his other hand. Pulling out his cell phone, he hands it to Rowan.

“Call the cops, honey. Tell them we have some trash to pick up.”

Rowan grabs the phone and I can see the look in her eyes is conflicted. She’s afraid of this situation but she’s afraid of the cops as well. However, before she can make the choice whether to dial or not, Juice lowers his hands down and turns toward his car. He never says a word, but shoots a last, lingering look to Rowan before he gets in, his cronies following.

We all three watch in silence, tense and ready for something to happen, until the car pulls away from the curb and it disappears from sight.

Satisfied that I’m safe for the moment because George is still holding his shotgun, I hobble over to the steps in front of his bar and sit down with a grunt. Holding my hand against my ribs, I find that helps the pain diminish from a ten to a nine.

“Call the cops, Rowan,” George says.

“No.” She hands the phone back to him. “They’re gone. And we need to get going.”

Her face is panicked and, given her aversion to cops, I’m not surprised she wants to get gone. I force myself to stand, grunting with the exertion. Holding my other hand out to her, I say, “Let’s go.”

“Call the goddamn cops, Rowan!” George yells.

Both of us startle and turn toward George. He is pissed and thankfully, his gun is pointed to the ground.

“Excuse me?” Rowan says. She’s shocked that George yelled at her, and so am I.

“You heard me.” His voice is just as hard and is brooking no nonsense.

I can feel Rowan stiffen beside me. Even though she is scared, she’s feeling backed into a corner and is going into protective mode. “Yeah, I did hear you, but I’m not doing it. I don’t like cops and I’m not calling them.”

George stares at her for a few moments and then he sneers, “You ungrateful little snot. I just saved your ass—”

“Now hold on a minute,” I growl, stepping toward George, shotgun be damned. “Watch how you talk to her.”

Rowan lays a hand on my arm to stop me. “No, I want to hear what he has to say. So say it, George.”

My heart actually lurches, because I can tell by the tone of Rowan’s voice, that George is getting ready to say something that’s going to hurt her. It lurches because Rowan doesn’t have to stick around and listen to it. I’m more than willing to leave with her right now. But for some reason, she’s going to take her lumps and listen to what the old man has to say.

George takes a deep breath and lets it out. His voice is extremely gentle when he says, “Rowan... I know how you feel about cops, but we have to involve them. I know you don’t like it, but think about others for a change. By defending you, I probably just signed my own death warrant. You don’t think Juice isn’t going to come back and demand a little vengeance for my interference? And what about your fella there? You saw the way Juice looked at him. He’s as good as dead, too. You may not need the cops help, but I do. And you two are my witnesses to what just went down here.”

Oh, man, I never even thought of it that way, and I’m sure Rowan didn’t either, judging by the stricken look on her face. I have a feeling George is completely right about this but I’m not going to make Rowan do something she doesn’t want to do. I promised her early on we wouldn’t involve the police if she didn’t want and I’m not about to go back on that promise.

“It’s okay, Rowan. I can handle myself, and I’m sure George can, too.” I grab her hand and start pulling her down the street, while George looks after us sadly. She moves along with me passively for a few steps, then she digs her heels in and stops.

“No, wait.”

I look down at Rowan and she’s scared... I can tell. I reach up, running a thumb down her cheek, and her eyes close from my soft touch.

“We don’t have to do this,” I assure her.

She shakes her head and opens her eyes, pinning me with resolve. “Yes, I do. It’s the right thing and until Juice is in custody, none of us are safe. If it were just me, I wouldn’t do it. But I’m not going to put you and George at risk.”

Releasing my hand, she walks back toward George while she pulls her own phone out. To my surprise, she also pulls out the card that Buzz had given her a few days ago. Giving me a small smile, she turns her phone on and dials.

11

I pace back and forth down the hallway, pausing every few seconds to listen at the bathroom door.

I’m waiting for Flynn to get out of the shower, waiting for him to fully understand the fucked-up craziness that is my life and boot me out of his apartment. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I’d completely understand.

When we got to his apartment, he didn’t say anything other than a curt, “I’m going to take a shower,” and then he disappeared into the bathroom. That was ten minutes ago and he should be out soon.

I can’t believe I almost got him killed. And George for that matter. I’m like a poison to those around me, and had it not been for George pointing out the danger I put him in, I would have never relented to calling the cops. But now that it’s done, I’m glad.

Detective Matheson arrived fairly quickly, along with another detective whose name I didn’t catch. He interviewed George first, and then Flynn.

He took Flynn’s statement, not only about what happened in front of Zeke’s, but also about my rescue from the fire. I sat there and listened to him as he recounted everything in an extremely organized and linear fashion. As I watched him talk, I literally watched as a bruise appeared on his temple. Once, he raised his right arm to rake his hand through his hair, and I saw his elbow was bloody. My chest actually cramped over the thought that Flynn got battered in an effort to defend me.

When it was my turn, he asked if I wanted to do the interview in private. I shook my head no, not quite having the courage to say out loud that I wanted Flynn there. It was a comfort that he sat beside me—not even touching—but just his presence was palpable.

Detective Matheson’s questions were straight and to the point. He only had to interrupt me twice for clarification, but otherwise let me tell the story I wanted