Go With It

2-1

2

They didn’t drive for long.

Half a dozen blocks later, they took a corner on two wheels and sped to the end of the block, coming to a skidding halt at the curb.

Adrenaline and fear kept Harlow going, but she couldn’t think clearly enough to ask questions. Another man was waiting on the sidewalk to yank open the back door the moment they stopped. Autopilot made her help the trio of men pull the unconscious man from her lap.

Sidewalk Man jumped to action, helping them up the stoop. Harlow didn’t remember the stairwell or entering the apartment. She was still trying to figure out what was going on or how she’d found herself there when Crash was laid on a bed in a bedroom so normal that it made the moment all the more surreal.

Sidewalk Man barked orders at the other two who were doing exactly what they were told.

Crash was stripped to the waist while Sidewalk Man, who it appeared was now in charge, went to a walk-in closet and came out with what Harlow was sure was an IV stand and a supply of blood.

“Get his pants off,” Sidewalk Man said, shoving her aside.

As though he’d just noticed her, he paused for half a beat to frown at her, like he was trying to figure out who she was. Harlow wasn’t sure she’d be able to tell him if he asked because this seemed so unlike her life that she wasn’t sure she was her anymore.

After that fleeting moment, he jumped back to action. The other two were pulling off Crash’s boots, while Sidewalk Man bent to stick a needle into his arm. Both hands went to her mouth in an attempt to stifle her gasp. The act was so quick it seemed barbaric. Though, as shocked as she was, Harlow did feel an element of relief when she realized the patient was getting the medical attention he needed.

If there was any hope of Crash’s life being saved, it was going to happen in this room.

Most of Sidewalk Man’s body was blocking her view. But from his position, it appeared like he was examining Crash’s wound. “Someone want to tell me what happened?” he asked.

The two men who’d just removed Crash’s pants shared a look with each other. When they didn’t respond, she felt obliged to say something. “I—”

“Nothing,” Punching Guy said, cutting her off with a glare. “Just a mishap. You know how it is, Bale… Can you fix him?”

“Depends. How long has he been out?” Again, no one answered. The guy they’d called Bale raised his attention first to look at the two men standing at the foot of the bed. When he got nothing from them, he twisted to pin her in his sights. “The more I know, the more I can do.”

“No more than twenty minutes,” she said, earning herself a glare from the pair who’d closed ranks.

Bale focused on her. “Was he talking before he lost consciousness? Coherent? Oriented?”

That was difficult to answer when she didn’t know what Crash was like under normal circumstances. At a bit of a loss, she opened her mouth, searching for a response. “He… he was hitting on me.”

Punching Guy scoffed and the driver shook his head. “Sounds like Ryske.”

So Ryske was Crash? That was his name. “Do you know who stabbed him?” Bale asked.

Noting the professional edge to his tone, it felt like maybe this was what he did for a living. Given that he had all the necessary equipment, Harlow figured he had to be some kind of doctor.

The question was a shock. “Stabbed?” she asked, having not spent time speculating on the cause of his injury. “He… was stabbed? Oh my God.”

Wobbling on her feet, she didn’t realize her lightheadedness had transferred to anything physical until someone took her arm. Lifting her focus, she found Punching Guy at her side, holding her elbow.

“Just do your thing, Bale,” Punching Guy said, guiding her toward the bedroom door. “Noon will help with whatever you need.”

Unable to argue or fight, Harlow staggered sideways when Punching Guy opened the bedroom door and pulled her out into a darkened living room. He tugged her to the couch and left her standing between it and the coffee table while he went to check the front door was locked.

A chill went through her. Shrugging off her daze, Harlow took stock. She was alone in an apartment with four men—well, three and a half—and all of them were strangers to her. No one knew where she was and no one would know where to look for her.

Clutching her purse higher to her chest, she took a step backwards. “Who are you people?” she asked. “Why did he tell me not to call 9-1-1?”

In the moment, she’d been acting on instinct and impulse. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask questions. The man was bleeding out; all she’d thought about was helping him.

With startling clarity, Punching Man’s response brought things into focus. “We’re criminals,” he said, without compunction, coming toward her.

Trying her best to conceal the tension that began to clench her muscles, Harlow didn’t let herself recoil. The man in front of her wasn’t fazed despite offering such honesty. Neither did he hesitate to offer her a hand like providing his lifestyle choice was a standard introduction.

“You’re—”

“They call me Maze. Noon, he’s the conscious one who drove the car. Ryske’s the unconscious one who hit on you. Dover’s the guy from behind the bar in Floyd’s. Bale’s the doc in the bedroom who’s going to fix our friend right up.”

Surprised that this Maze was being so open, she was nervous to shake his hand. Although, having been raised to be polite, she couldn’t refuse it.

Remaining wary, she slipped her fingers into his palm. “Harlow.”

“Nice to meet you, Harlow,” he said, flashing her a smile that was just a little too suave for her liking. “You did our boy a solid tonight. That means we owe you…”

He didn’t complete the sentence, and it seemed to be a deliberate choice. She could feel it hanging thick and unfinished in the air. “I…”

“Before we get to what you want from us, you have to tell me what you know… You tell me everything and no one else.”

That statement was daunting in itself. This guy seemed to be a professional intimidator. Harlow hadn’t known that was a crime, but she was beginning to rethink that assumption.

“No one else?” she asked. “I don’t—”

“Ryske didn’t want you calling 9-1-1 because cops ask questions. They’re suspicious of guys who show up with stab wounds.”

Sure, she imagined that they would be. This Maze had been kind enough to at least be honest about their profession, though she couldn’t say it put her mind at ease. In fact, it raised more questions. Before she could respond, there was a knock at the door.

It was no normal knock. The sequence of different tempoed notes formed a tune. One which obviously meant something to Maze because he reversed to the door he’d just locked and opened it without even checking who he was granting entry to.

The bartender.

Dover. That was the name Maze had given for him.

Dover examined her while Maze locked the door again. “Who is she?” he asked, like she wasn’t there.

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” Maze said, moving to his cohort’s side… though “accomplice” may be a more accurate descriptor.

“Ryske gonna make it?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet either,” Maze said. “Noon’s in there.”

Dover nodded once. Both men started toward her, riveted in their focus. “You think she’s one of Hagan’s?”

Maze didn’t get the opportunity to answer because she did. “I am not Hagan’s,” she asserted, offended by the notion. “His men were the ones who did this to Ryske. If I hadn’t stepped in, they’d have finished what they started right there on the sidewalk.”

Dover turned to look at Maze, who didn’t say anything. Rethinking why the bartender had told her that he was counting on her to keep Ryske alive, Harlow began to get the impression that had been a con to keep her around until they figured her out.

“She fake named me,” Maze said.

Her jaw fell. A sound of offense squeaked in the back of her throat. “I did not fake name you,” she squawked. “My name is Harlow and I’ll prove it.”

Yanking open her purse, she rooted around and pulled out her wallet to retrieve her ID. The moment she held it up, Maze leaned forward to take it. Noticing how he took his time about scrutinizing the card, she regretted being so rash in producing it.

“IDs aren’t hard to fake,” Dover said, stepping forward to guard his associate who was less than discreet about pocketing her ID. “I’ve got a dozen of those in a drawer.”

If these two thought she was going to be a pushover, they had another thing coming. “Yeah, because I’m sure your name’s really Dover and Maze is the name his momma gave him,” she said, thrusting one hand to her hip while the other opened to them. “May I have my ID back, please?”

“Sure,” Dover said, moving to the side while Maze moved the other way, so the latter was shielded behind the former. “Just as soon as our colleague verifies your story.”

“Your…” Stunned, her hand dropped. “Crash?” She shook the moniker they wouldn’t recognize off her lips to replace it with the right one. “Ryske? You want to keep me here until Ryske can verify my story…” Incredulous was hardly enough to describe what she was feeling. “You’re not serious… he might never wake up.”

“And if he doesn’t, that’s bad for you,” Dover said.

“I haven’t told you what happened,” she said, but they didn’t seem interested in listening. “What do you think happened? Do you think I stabbed him? I didn’t even know him before tonight! I still don’t know him!”

Her plea didn’t affect either of them. They went back to talking as though she were deaf. “If she’s Hagan’s, we shouldn’t have brought her here,” Maze said into Dover’s ear.

Dover’s chin swung toward his shoulder. “I wasn’t going to leave her on the sidewalk. Ryske would be the first one to tell us to keep the variables under control.”

Until that moment, Harlow had never considered that word to be an insult. “I am not a variable,” she said, losing grip of her patience, which, at work, she had no trouble holding onto. Outside of work, she didn’t have to worry about being professional. “I saved your friend’s life! I didn’t have to. I could’ve left him there on the sidewalk to bleed out. I could’ve called 9-1-1 and ignored him telling me not to! You guys might not like it, you might not trust me! Hell, I don’t trust any of you! But I did a good thing tonight! All of you should be on the floor kissing my damn feet! You’re the criminals! That’s your choice! I am not on trial here! I do not answer to any of you! And I will not be threatened for saving your boy’s a*s!” Marching to them, she shoved Dover aside and opened her palm to Maze. “Give me my goddamn ID.”

Maze looked past her, probably at Dover, who must have nodded because Maze retrieved the ID from his pocket and handed it over. “Ryske’s always been able to pick ‘em,” he muttered.

Ignoring what that implied, Harlow stopped short of saying that Ryske hadn’t picked her at all. The convergence of their lives meant that they’d happened to occupy the same space at the same moment in time. Neither of them had planned to crash to the sidewalk together.

Offended as she was by their treatment of her and the things they’d said as though she wasn’t there, Harlow wasn’t afraid of the oafs sharing this room with her.

Her lack of fear had a lot to do with her philosophy on life. Harlow believed a person was in control of their own destiny and that they had to take responsibility for their own choices. Given her training and experience, she could size people up with relative accuracy.

By their own admission, these men were criminals. Yet, no one had threatened her with violence. Other than Maze taking her out of the bedroom, no one had touched her. Whatever they were capable of, they hadn’t raised her DEFCON level.