BOMB: A Day in the Life of Spencer Shrike (7 page)

I smile. They made the mistake of assuming that the road leading up to my house was public. It’s not. It’s my road, all three miles of it. It’s on my fucking land, which makes that land my fucking home. Which means I can shoot those fuckers if the right situation arises and it’s totally legal according to Colorado law.

I never got my chance to shoot anyone, but I did beat the shit out of a reporter who was hiding in the trees near the river in back of my house.

The county deputies pretty much had it after that. They cleared them all out under the pretense that it was a fire hazard. A few years ago this whole area was up in flames, so people tend to take that fire talk seriously around here.

Rook survived. Ford was here, Ronin was here. The Biker Channel hired security. She never had to leave if she didn’t want to, she worked in my shop while we were filming and did her classes online. Ford fired that piece-of-shit tutor who ratted us out and helped Rook in her college math class himself. I even got Ronin to do her delivery duties.

We protected her one hundred percent. But her situation was unique.

Ronnie works in a tattoo shop downtown. If she doesn’t work, she doesn’t make money. She can’t pay her bills. Her family is not rich. Hell, they’re not even middle-class. They might be the token white trash of Fort Collins. They do have a big-ass house in the historic district, but they have that house for one reason only—Gramps won it in a poker game back in 1958. It’s not in good repair. The place is freezing-ass cold in the winter because the furnace is so old it hardly functions, and the roof has been leaking since I met her.

And Ronnie might have a pack of badass brothers and a father who’d drop you with one kick to the throat, but the doors don’t even lock on that house. The windows barely shut. The only reason it’s never been robbed is because the Vaughn clan scares the shit out of people.

If Ronnie was thrust into the public eye like Rook was, she’d never make it. The entire family would be annihilated. They’d lose their business, they’d be hounded day and night. And there’s no way to restrict picketers on a public sidewalk in downtown like I can do on my little backcountry private road.

There’s just no way to keep her safe other than the way I’ve been doing it. Ignoring her.

The minute anyone finds out this girl is my future Mrs. Spencer Shrike, people will pounce. And while I can handle that at any other time—I could get her out of here and put her somewhere safe, I could make sure the Vaughn clan gets Sick Boyz’ rent paid on time, I could drum up business for them with some word-of-mouth buzz—I cannot do any of that shit right
now
.

We’ve got a major trial happening in two weeks. Rook will need to testify about the most horrific details of her previous life. They will try their best to link Ronin, Ford, and myself to a shitload of crimes that took place several years ago. I cannot be worrying about Ronnie and her family.

It’s just not a good time.

I turn off College Avenue before I get to Ron’s shop and park the truck on Maple, right next to my new building. It used to be an auto repair place a few years ago, but that went under and no one picked it back up. The Biker Channel loved the location, just past all the cute shops in downtown so we won’t offend anyone with our loud bikes. Plus, it’s already set up for a shop.

I get out of the truck and walk up to it, just checking shit out. The windows are all boarded up still. No one’s supposed to see inside until the grand opening and the crews won’t even start painting the outside for another week.

Not much to see, so I head down the street towards Sick Boyz. It’s still packed when I get there. All those frat guys are milling about outside waiting on their brothers to be finished. They’re drunk and I don’t like it.

I check my phone for the time. Ten forty-five. And just as I look up, Ronnie comes plowing through the doors in a rush. I slink back against the building, hiding in the crowd of guys as she looks up and down the street, probably checking to see if I’m doing recon on her ass. One of the guys outside the shop whistles at her and she flips him the bird and tells him to fuck off as she walks off towards home.

I start to laugh, but it dies in my throat because she stops at Mountain Avenue and hits the walk button. This is where things get interesting. Because her house is west, and that signal is for crossing College Avenue to the east.

My legs are in motion before my brain fully understands what’s happening. I’m an act-now-think-later kinda guy, so I take off after her. Where the fuck is she going? It’s late, it’s dark, she’s got no car—she should not be walking around downtown alone. Not that this town is unsafe
per se
, but bad shit happens everywhere. Even here. And it’s a college town, which means there’s always the threat of predators.

She walks briskly on Mountain, then turns abruptly into an alley. I hang back. My Ronnie is not stupid. She never looked back at me, but I taught her to keep walking if she ever thought she was being followed. Keep quiet for as long as possible and get that gun ready. I stalk up to the corner and wait. I know she’s on the other side, ready to pounce on anyone who appears. I can feel her when she’s this close. Like we’re connected. I can almost hear her heartbeat, that wild heartbeat that drives me crazy beating against mine as she lies on top of me after sex.

I hear an exhale, then the pounding of her Chucks as she beats a retreat. I poke my head around and catch her disappearing around another corner. But this is not a street, it’s a building. I cross the alley and stalk the wall, getting to her corner just in time to hear a screen door slam.

What the fuck is she doing?

I peak around the corner just as some lights flip on in an upstairs apartment over an old building.

That little sneak got her own place. Her car is out back, parked. And sure enough, there’s a For Sale sign on it. And she’s dating some rich guy. I bet she’s got new panties on as well! That uptight fuckass banker is enjoying my Bomb’s new panties!

I’ll kill him.

I walk over to the stairs and try my best to be quiet as I ascend, but they are wooden. And old. And squeaky. Suddenly the door is kicked open and a gun is pressing against my cheek. “Move one inch, motherfucker. I’ll blow your teeth out the other side of your head!”

“Whoa there, Ron, it’s me, baby.”

She pulls the gun off my face. “Holy hell, Spencer! You scared the fuck out of me! I thought you were gonna break in and rape me!”

“Well…” I chuckle a little. She does not find my joke funny. At all. “Sorry, Veronica. I was waiting for you outside the shop and saw you walking the wrong direction. I just needed to see what’s up.”

“It’s none of your business what I do.” She pulls the screen door open and walks into her place.

I follow her in and stalk her to the kitchen, where she grabs a beer from the fridge and then pushes past me and plops herself down on the raggedy thing some might call a couch.

“So… you moved out? Why? And what’s this shit about you selling your car? I bought you that for graduation. ”

She kicks her Chucks up on the battered coffee table and pops off her beer cap. “I’m twenty-three, Spencer. It’s about time I left the nest, don’t you think?”

“Uh…” No, not really. That’s not what I think at all. I like her at home. I like her surrounded by Gramps and her father and little brother. Three related men in the house. Yes, that’s something I can live with for a long time, thank you. But I say none of that. My Shrike Sense is tingling. I feel a declaration of independence coming from my little Ron. So I sit down next to her and try to be reasonable. “Ronnie, this place is a dump. You can’t stay here.”

She takes a swig of her Fat Tire and lets out a long, “Ahhhhh.” Totally ignoring me.

I decide on the subtle approach. “So how long is the lease? Please tell me it’s a month-to-month.”

She flips the TV to Comedy Central. There’s an
Ab Fab
marathon and I get a little distracted for a second. But then I snap out of it and take my attention back to her. “Veronica, answer me. Why are you living in this dump?”

She laughs as Patsy smokes a joint on TV, then drags her eyes over to me. “If you’re here to fuck me tonight, the answer is no. I have a boyfriend.”

“What? Yeah, me! I’m the boyfriend!” I stand up and pace. This has gone too far now. “Please tell me you’re not seeing that banker asshole. Because I swear—”

“Dammit! Who told you that? Ford? Did Ford tell you? I’ll kill his ass.”

“I saw you together at dinner, Veronica. What the fuck is up? And I still want to know why the fuck you’re living in this alleyway shithole.”

She snorts out a laugh and shakes her head. “You have no clue, Spencer. None.” She looks over at me again, only now her eyes are filled with anger. “You really think that you can saunter in here and demand my attention?” She stands up and points at me. “You really think I give a fuck what you think about my home? Fuck you. I’m not ashamed of this place.” She looks around the apartment and points to the art affixed to the walls with thumb tacks, and then looks back at me. “I love this place. I
love
this place,” she repeats with the emphasis. “You wanna know why I love this dumpy little shithole? I’ll tell you. It’s because it’s
my
dumpy fucking shithole, you giant prick. I wasn’t born to a wealthy family. I wasn’t given a private education growing up. I didn’t even have a fucking mother, you insensitive jerk. I had to claw my way through dinner every night. Fighting back four brothers for food. I had to submit to them at every turn. I had to fight them, for fuck’s sake. When they got the itch to pick on me, whether it was in play or not. My life has been nothing but one long fucking struggle. And this”—she pans her hands wide to include all the space within her little apartment—“this is my reward. And maybe it’s not up to your goddamned standards, but no one gives a fucking shit about you in this room except
you
, Spencer Shrike. And you do not deserve me. You don’t. I’m a good person. I worked hard to get what I have. And maybe it’s not a lot compared to what you have, but at least I got it honestly.”

I just stare at her. Unable to move or even form a sentence.

“So fuck off. I’ve moved on, asshole. Get it through your thick skull. I’m not interested.”

“Veronica,” I say calmly. “You don’t—”

My cheek is suddenly stinging with heat and Veronica is staring at her red palm, stunned that it actually struck out and hit me across the face.

She shakes herself out of her daze and points her finger at me again. “Don’t you dare tell me what I think or what I feel. Don’t you dare. I’m so fucking tired of people telling me things about myself they have no clue about. Every damn day I walk into Sick Boyz and swallow down the vomit. Do you know that about me, Spencer? You think you know me so well. Do you know that the smell of blood makes me sick? The sight of blood makes me sick? Not sick as in I might faint, or I might feel a little queasy, or that’s sorta gross. But sick in a way that makes my heart beat so fast I think I might drop dead. It gives me panic attacks, Spencer. Every damn day I fight it off.” Her whole body is shaking.

“Ronnie—” But I have nothing to say. “I didn’t know that, no. I thought you liked it. It’s art.”

“
Art
?” She laughs and then the tears spill out. “Art? It’s a fucking tattoo shop, you dumbass! I went to school for four years to study art and three years later I trace line drawings on skin. I have to cover myself head to toe in personal protection equipment because I am obsessed with the idea that I’ll contract hepatitis through some innocuous cut on my arm. Did you ever once ask me why I cover the room in plastic?”

She stops her rant to let me think about this. Have I? “I don’t need to ask, Ronnie. I know why.”

“Why? Tell me why, then, if you’re so fucking smart.”

“You hate the blood and—”

“Wrong.” She cuts me off. “That’s not why. Do you realize no one—
no one
,” she reiterates—“has ever asked me why I cover the room in plastic?”

I move towards her to bring her in my arms. She struggles against me but I’m so much bigger, it’s hardly a problem. I wrap her up and pull her close to my chest so I can lean down in her ear and whisper, “You cover the room in plastic to protect people, Veronica. I’ve always known that was the reason.”

She starts to cry and I just hold her close. This is an end-of-the-line meltdown my little Ronnie is having. She’s good and strung out. Bad.

“I don’t want to go there anymore, Spencer. I need this, OK? I need this so fucking bad. I can’t think straight when I’m at work. All I see is the blood. And I finally have a chance to make a real change. This banker, Spencer. He’s my chance. Please don’t ruin it for me.”

We stand there in silence for a few moments. I’m not enough for her right now, I can see that now. I can’t give her what she needs because of my own stupid mistakes. This is her personal struggle and it’s got nothing to do with me. “What do you want me to do, Ronnie?” And even though I already know what she’s gonna say, it hurts me so fucking bad when the words finally come out.

“Leave me alone, Spencer. Just go. Leave me alone.”

I swallow hard and shake my head. She doesn’t try and pull away, she gives me this moment at least. “Veronica, if that’s what you need, I’ll go. But before I do, I’d like to have my say too.” She stays silent so I push forward. “The day I saw you, my life started. My chest swelled with this feeling. A feeling I’d never felt before. When I watched you that first week before I made my move in art class, I realized something. I realized that the day I saw you my heart started to beat a whole new way. It was like all these years I had no idea what my heart was for, and then bam—you were there in front of me. And by the time I followed you to art class that day we got together, I had finally figured out what it was.”