Page 23 of Hot as Hell (Royal Bastards MC, Montreal, Canada #2)

Chapter Twenty

Around three a.m., an alarm on his phone went off, alerting Hemlock there was activity outside his condo.

Rolling over, he expected to see an animal on the screen.

Instead, he saw a hooded figure moving around his bike and car.

Throwing the covers off, he pulled on his jeans, grabbed the gun from his nightstand, and ran for the front door.

He hadn’t gotten the door opened good when he caught sight of the perp moving across the lawn.

His bare feet hit the dew-covered grass as he tracked the figure moving fast across the neighbor’s yard.

Hemlock didn’t slow down, and he wouldn’t until he had the asshole on the ground.

He followed in pursuit through multiple yards when he came to the end of the street, he caught sight once again of the individual as they turned the corner.

Hemlock barely missed a broken off fence post and slipped on the wet grass.

Regaining his footing, he started gaining on his target.

He was in range and shouted, “Stop or I’ll shoot.

” One chance was all he gave before he’d pull the trigger.

A dark-colored sedan came into view and screeched to a halt as the passenger door opened.

It’s now or never, Hemlock thought as he brought the gun up and pulled the trigger.

The perp managed to get into the car unharmed.

Ready to keep firing at the driver, he watched as the car sped off, leaving Hemlock standing in the middle of the street.

Lights were popping on inside apartments along with the sounds of dogs barking.

Walking over, he found the spent rounds and picked them up.

No need to leave anything for the cops when they arrived on the scene. And they would.

Heading back to his condo, Hemlock stepdown and felt a sharp pain in his foot. “Damn it!” Picking up his foot, he saw a large piece of glass barely sticking out of it. “I must have hit the car window after all.”

Pulling the glass out, he held onto it and hobbled back home. Coming across the lawn he heard sirens and knew he needed to get rid of the gun in his waistband. Charlie stood on the little front porch wrapped in a blanket. “Are you okay?”

“No. I cut my foot. I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

Hemlock handed her the gun, which she took holding it between two fingers like it would bite her.

Then he handed her the spent bullet casings.

“Put those in the bedroom. In my top dresser drawer there’s a gun that looks just like this one.

It has a red line painted on the side. Bring it to me, please. Quickly.”

Charlie didn’t ask questions; she just ran inside doing what Hemlock asked of her. She came out and handed him the new gun just as blue lights were seen making the corner.

“Go inside and stay there. If I get arrested call Truck. His number’s in my phone.” Hemlock nudged her back inside and closed the door. Walking over to his car, he set the gun on the hood and walked away, putting distance between him and it.

When the police drove up, Hemlock waved them down and made sure to stay clear of the gun. He watched as the police car parked at the end of his driveway. As the cop stepped out of the car he pointed his flashlight at him momentarily blinding Hemlock.

“Evening,” the officer called out, his voice steady but sharp.“You live here, son?”

Son . Damn, the only person who called him that was Truck. Mostly people called him a son of a bitch. “Yes, sir. I’m Emile Durand.”

The cop shined his flashlight over Hemlock. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yes, I am. Stepped on a large piece of glass in the street.” He saw when the cop noticed the gun.

When his flashlight landed on a gun close to the young man, the officer unsnapped the strap holding his gun in his holster. “You got a permit for that gun, son?” he asked, keeping his eyes on Mr. Durand.

Hemlock answered with his normal casual ease, “Yes, and it’s a pellet gun.”

“I need to see some I.D. and the license for the gun.”

“It’s inside.”

“I’ll wait.”

“One second.” Hemlock limped over to the front door and opened it. “Honey, can you grab my wallet from the counter for me?”

Charlie was standing right inside the door when Hemlock opened it. She had pressed herself against the wall trying not to get hit. “Sure, babe,” she said sarcastically. Walking over, she grabbed the wallet and handed it to him. “Is everything okay?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

Hemlock took the wallet and rolled his eyes at her.

Closing the door, he limped back over to the cop.

Pulling out both licenses, he handed them over and waited for the cop to call his information in.

Glancing back at the porch, he saw the window blinds snap shut and chuckled.

When the cop finally came back over, he handed Hemlock the cards and asked what was going on earlier.

“My phone woke me up alerting me someone was messing with my vehicles. I came out here with the pellet gun and chased them down the street.”

“Were you aiming to kill them, Mr. Durand?”

“Not at all. If I wanted to hurt them, they would be bleeding not me.”

“You should know better than to run around barefooted,” the cop said offhandedly. “You might want to get that looked at.”

“I’m a nurse practitioner.” He saw the smirk spread across the cop’s face and wanted to slap him. Instead, Hemlock kept his hands tucked in his front pockets.

“Did you get a look at the perpetrator?”

“No. They were in all black with a hoodie covering their face. A car pulled up around the corner and that’s when I lost them.”

“If they come back, call us instead of running around with a pellet gun. There are people in the world, nurse Durand, who have real guns, and they will kill you.”

“You’re absolutely right, officer.” Hemlock clinched his teeth, thinking if only the cop knew who he was talking to. Waving, he watched the police car roll away. He stood there alone in the middle of the lawn, thinking about who would be lurking around his place.

Shaking his head, he walked over to the car and picked up the pellet gun. Looking down at his right foot, which was now throbbing, he saw it was still bleeding freely. “Fuck.” If he had to get a tetanus shot, he would be pissed. Those bitches hurt.

Limping back to the house, he swore with every step.

Sitting on the little bench on his porch, he looked at his foot, which now was covered in grass and blood.

Knocking on the door, he waited for Charlie to open it.

“Can you look over the dryer and grab me an old towel? Please,” he asked when she popped her head out.

“Of course.”

Charlie came back out handing him the towel. “What happened to your foot?” she asked, looking down at where he was wiping away grass and blood.

“I stepped on glass.”

“Come inside where I can help clean it up.”

“I don’t want to bleed all over the floors.”

“Hemlock, it’s blood. It will come off the floors. Now, get inside.”

Grabbing her hand, he let her hoist him up so he could hop into the house. Dropping down into the nearest kitchen chair, he saw the trail of large blood drops he left in his wake. Shit, he would definitely be scrubbing the floors.

When she grabbed his foot, his fist reared back on instinct.

He saw her eyes go wide at the sight of it.

Feeling like a grade A asshole, he dropped his hand onto the table.

“Sorry, it’s a knee jerk reaction when someone hurts me.

” The comment said a lot about who he was, whether she realized it or not.

Charlie hid her shock as his fist came up.

The only thing that told her he wouldn’t strike her was the wounded look that spread across his handsome face and the sadness in his eyes as he dropped his hand.

She had always thought her life had been tough, but wondered what his had been like for him to be ready to strike out at pain inflicted by someone else.

She held his foot up and tried to wipe away some of the blood to see the wound. The pressure only made the foot throb harder.

“Damn woman, a nurse you are not,” Hemlock said through gritted teeth.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize I was hurting you.” Putting his foot down, she didn’t know what to do for him. “It needs stitches, and you need a tetanus shot.”

Hemlock reached forward, lifting her face with his hand. “I’m sorry. I would never strike a woman.”

“I’m not afraid you’d hit me.” Charlie gave him a small smile. “You wouldn’t, right?”

“Never.”

“Good. Now, who do I call to come here and take care of this wound? Or do we need to go to the clinic?”

“Get me my phone. I’ll call Razor.”

If he could feel any worse than he already did, he would. Most women would have turned from him, not Charlie, he knew she had seen his fear when he had suddenly jerked in response to the pain, and it bothered him he hadn’t managed to keep it hidden.

When would his fucking past stop messing with him?