Читать книгу Last Man Standing - Wendy Rosnau - Страница 11

The rules on sex, dating and men are as follows, Lannie. Don’t ever let your body rule your head. Don’t say yes when you mean no. And never let a man get you cornered or down. Down as in off your feet and on your back. If it happens, Lannie, be prepared to feel the snake come alive. Am I making myself clear, darling? If you feel the snake, you’re in trouble and you must knee the beast and run. Run like hell, Lannie. That is, unless you want to be caught. You’ll want to be caught one day, darling. All women do. But we’ll talk about that when you’re older. For now I’ll ask Romano to teach you some self-defense.

Her mother’s words had been offered to her when she was twelve, and Elena had gotten several more lessons on sex, dating and men in the years that followed. And defense lessons from Romano.

Elena stood between Lucky’s legs, aware that what she’d felt moments ago had been the snake. Her gaze drifted to the front of his jeans. Not thinking too clearly, she asked, “Does this happen often? You know—” her eyes darted to his face “—ah, your back locking up and your legs going limp. I mean, numb.”

She focused on the vivid scar that curled around his hipbone just above his jeans. It had to be the one, she thought. The legendary scar that went on forever. Did it go up or down? If it went up, it likely climbed his back to merge with the scar on his neck.

Accustomed to touching people in her line of work, Elena reached out and ran her finger across the visible five inches of the questionable scar. “I went to school at a medical institute for myofascial therapy. My interest, in the beginning, was just to help my mother with her pain.” When he said nothing, she continued to carefully examine the portion of the scar she could see.

Her professor at the college had told her that her personal experience with her mother had given her compassion, as well as the dedication needed to become an effective therapist.

She asked, “When you lose the feeling in your legs, how long does it last?”

He didn’t answer, which told Elena that he was either being stubborn for pride’s sake, or that the paralysis was still in an inconsistent state.

She continued to study the thick fibrotic tissue, pressing into the scar with her thumb, adding more pressure as she moved it over the scar with immeasurable slowness.

On an intake of breath, he grumbled, “Go ask Blacky for a bottle of Scotch.”

She kept her eyes on her fingers as she examined the scar. “You don’t need more to drink. What you need is—”

“Scotch, Elena.”

His tone was razor sharp and she looked up.

“Two bottles.” When she still hesitated, his nostrils flared. “Now!”

Elena backed away from him and left the room. She found Blacky standing at the end of the red carpet enjoying the show on the catwalk. This time the half-naked woman was a six-foot redhead with breasts the size of Florida grapefruits.

She quickly instructed him to bring two bottles of Scotch to number sixteen, and when she returned to the room, she saw that Lucky had pulled himself up against the headboard.

“Blacky’s on his way with your order,” she said tightly. “What else will you be needing besides a new liver and a breath mint?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Sì. Come here, Elena. Come push one of these pillows behind me so I can sit up straighter. I’m helpless, remember?”

“As helpless as a viper, you mean.”

His gaze drifted over her, slowly and deliberately. “Come here.”

She did what he asked. Rounded the bed and climbed onto the mattress. In the process of shoving a pillow behind him, a hard rap sounded at the door. It was the only warning they got before the door opened.

Elena looked up expecting to see Blacky, then gasped when Moody Trafano walked into the room wearing his lizard’s grin and carrying Lucky’s two bottles of Scotch.

This just wasn’t his night, Lucky decided as Moody Trafano kick the door shut. “Where’s Blacky?” he inquired, knowing the answer before he asked the question.

“Taking a nap in number five.” Moody’s gaze locked on Elena. “You should have been nicer to me at the bar, doll.”

Lucky tried to move his legs, but even as he worked at the hopeless cause, he saw Moody’s grin grow wide. The bastard had already guessed why he was still sprawled on the bed, instead of on his feet.

“I thought it was all talk, you becoming a cripple. Guess there’s a reason for you drinking a case of Scotch a day, after all.” Moody’s smile shifted to Elena where she sat on her knees on the bed. “You scared yet, doll? You should be. I don’t like mouthy women unless they’re on their knees.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“You don’t want to do this, Trafano,” Lucky warned. “I’ll have to kill you if you touch her. Kill you slow. Capiche?”

“Maybe I’ll just have to kill you first.” Moody set one of the bottles of Scotch on the table. Opened the other one. Motioning to Elena, he said, “Unbutton your sweater and come here. I want to look at you.”

Instead of doing as she was told, Elena rebuttoned the top two buttons on her sweater.

“What’s the matter? Not as mouthy without a knife, doll?” Moody tipped up the bottle, took several swallows. “It’s too late for regrets, sweet milk. You should have given me the respect I deserve.”

“You don’t know what the word means,” Elena replied.

Moody raised the bottle to his lips again and drank deeply. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he set the bottle on the table. Then he pulled his dark green sweater off over his head to reveal a clean-shaven muscular chest. He flexed his biceps. “Come on now, doll. We both know you’re not shy, so bring that sweet ass of yours over here.”

Reaching for the bottle, Moody pulled a chair away from the table and placed it in the middle of the room. Taking a seat on it, he tipped his head back and chugged more liquor.

“Don’t get off the bed, Elena,” Lucky whispered. “Stay where you are.”

“And that’s going to help us in what way?” She whispered back. “Maybe if I pretend to like him, I can—”

Lucky gripped her wrist. “Don’t leave my side.”

“You can’t move, remember?” She twisted her wrist free.

“Do as I say, Elena.”

“Give me your knife,” she suddenly suggested. “The Hibben, not the Haug. I’ve never liked how that style handle fits my hand.”

Her words brought his head around, his eyes searching hers. “How do you know what I’m carrying or the difference between…”

His thought process shifted when he felt her hand on his hip. Remembering how quickly she’d stolen his knife at the bar, Lucky covered her hand with his, then curled his fingers around hers and slowly squeezed. If he wanted to, he could break her fingers one by one. “I’ll handle this,” he mouthed at her.

She mouthed back, “Without legs? I don’t think so.”

Moody finally came up for air after he’d drained half the bottle. “Damn, that’s good Scotch.”

He licked his thin lips, studied the last two inches in the bottle. As he tipped his head back to drain what was left, Lucky slid his hand to the front of his jeans and unzipped himself.

“What are you doing?” Elena whispered.

“Handling it,” was Lucky’s answer as he slid his hand into the opening to palm the .22 tucked next to his groin. Then, easing the weapon out through his open fly, he aimed it at Moody Trafano’s kneecap and pulled the trigger.

Elena fidgeted in the back seat of a cold taxicab. The aging Buick sat idling nosily under a lamppost behind the Shedd.

Thirty minutes ago she’d been escorted out the back entrance into the alley by Blacky—who was wearing an angry purple welt on his forehead. There, he had placed her in the cab and told her to sit tight.

The image of Lucky’s hand going into his jeans by way of his zipper and coming out with a gun flashed behind Elena’s eyes. What followed was Moody Trafano screaming in pain as he toppled off the chair clutching his shattered knee.

She’d never witnessed a man being shot before. The blast had made her ears ring and she’d felt physically sick. Dazed, she’d been unable to move as the door had flown open seconds later and a man brandishing a .38 had charged inside demanding, “Dammit, Lucky, what the hell’s going on in here?”