A door leading to another room caught his eye. Making his way over to it, he palmed the knob and threw it open. A quick battlefield scan left, right, and center told him the place was empty except for a big table and glowing neon beer signs.
Blowing out a breath, he turned to find Samantha lying on her side, no longer looking at Venom. Her legs were splayed awkwardly, pieces of a broken barstool taped to her calves. Her shirt hung open. And a sound came from the back of her throat. It was one to add to his list of things he’d never forget.
Brass-balled, tough-as-nails, take-no-shit Samantha Tate was whimpering…
*
Samantha never cried.
Well, that wasn’t true. She had cried for weeks after her father died, and then for a full day after Donny ran the story that brought the alderman down. But other than that? Zippo, zilch, we’re talking a big, fat goose egg. And she wasn’t really crying now. But she was on the verge, teetering on a knife’s edge.
Why?
Well, because she had thought for sure she was dead. Because when Venom lifted his weapon, she had thought for sure Ozzie was dead. But neither of those things had happened, and now she was so overcome with relief and gratitude that it was all trying to explode out of her in—
“It’s okay, sweetheart.”
He was there! Alive and whole and strong and brave! He got her into a seated position, her legs straddling his lean hips, her head on his shoulder as he used the bottom of his boot to shove Venom’s corpse further beneath the table.
“We have to be quick,” he whispered, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a folding knife. “I counted one asshole upstairs who might decide to come down and investigate if he’s a dumbshit. If he’s smart, he’ll hop on his bike and get the hell out of Dodge.” He pointed toward the back door. “Hear that?” The distant sounds of sirens drifted in from outside. “The cavalry is on its way.”
It hit her then. He’d come in alone.
Oh, shit a brick. Now she was on the verge of crying again. “S-sorry,” she sniffled, calling herself ten kinds of sniveling, soggy, want-to-kick-her-own-ass damsel-in-distress. Yuck.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he assured her, flicking the knife open with a snick. The blade gleamed menacingly under the fluorescent lights. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I should never have left you alone.”
She’d thought it wasn’t possible for her to love him more. But in the moment, she did.
He didn’t waste any time putting the knife to use on the restraints around her wrists. She couldn’t help herself. She turned her face into his neck and breathed him in. All those pheromones and that sweet bad-boy smell.
“No, I sh-should apologize. I’m the one who g-got you into this mess. I’m the one who l-lied.” Her voice was muffled against his warm skin. When her hands came free, the first thing she did was try to wrap her arms around him and hold him close. To her surprise and consternation, she hugged nothing but air. He was down on his haunches, using his knife to cut through the duct tape around her calves.
“When did you lie?” he whispered, never looking up, concentrating on the task at hand. He was sawing one-handed because he refused to drop his weapon.
She wanted to run her fingers through his hair but didn’t dare distract him. Instead, she gripped the edge of the pool table and gritted her teeth when he ripped the tape and barstool leg off her right leg.
“When I told you I wouldn’t leave my desk and—”
He shushed her, cocking an ear to the sirens that were coming closer every second. “Let’s both agree to be sorry that any of this happened and leave it at that.” Rrrrrip! The second barstool leg came free, and Samantha felt like a weight had been lifted. The last vestiges of Venom and what he’d intended to do to her were gone.
Ozzie was up in a flash, grabbing her waist to hoist her from the table. Her legs wobbled when he set her down in front of Venom’s lifeless body. Even though he was dead, she could feel the evil presence of the biker at her feet. And her silly heart ran a never-ending race as the electric squeal of the sirens grew to eardrum-bursting levels. The sound of car doors slamming was unmistakable.
Before they were overrun by the law and made to answer questions and give statements, she had one thing she had to make absolutely clear. It couldn’t wait another second. She couldn’t wait another second. Her fingers shook when she grabbed his leather-clad arm. “Ozzie, I—”
That’s all she managed before the door separating the flower shop from the basement burst open with a bang. The douchecanoe from earlier stood in the threshold. And he wasn’t alone. He had a mean-looking handgun with him. It was aimed straight at Samantha’s head.
Her heart had just enough time to trip over itself before Ozzie yelled, “No!” and stepped in front of her, lifting his weapon and pulling the trigger.
A massive roar of sound filled the room, and something hot and sticky sprayed across Samantha’s face, making her wince. When she blinked open her eyes, it was to see two things. The first was the asswipe on the top step dropping dead from the bullet that entered below his left eye and exploded out the back of his head, splattering blood and brain matter onto the door. His lifeless body crumpled like a rag doll, hitting the stairs and tumbling into the basement. The second thing was Ozzie going down on one knee like his bad leg had given out on him. He made a sound. It was a cross between a puff of air and a moan. What happened next seemed to be in slow motion.
He toppled forward, seeming to take forever to hit the concrete floor and lie motionless. Police burst in through the door to the flower shop, weapons up and aimed. Someone was screaming their head off, but it was a dull sound, muted like a shout through a goose-down pillow.
Then time righted itself. The world righted itself. And Samantha realized she was the one shrieking like a banshee.
She hit the ground at Ozzie’s side, her knees crying out in agony. She paid them no heed. After all, it was her heart that was the problem. It had stopped beating the moment she saw the pool of blood growing on the floor beneath Ozzie’s head.
It hadn’t been one massive roar of sound that filled the room, but two booming shots as both men discharged their weapons simultaneously. And that hot spray she had felt? It was Ozzie’s blood.
“No! No, no!” She screamed, struggling to breathe while simultaneously attempting to turn him over. His big body weighed a thousand pounds, but finally, she managed it.
Is he breathing? She couldn’t tell. His eyes were closed. His mouth hung slightly open. And there was blood—a lot of blood—smeared along the left side of his face, matting his hair in a gruesome crimson tangle and running down to stain his beard.