Page 19 of Devil's Marker

Win was holding his nose with both hands, blood running down his face and dripping off his jaw onto his shirt. For a couple of seconds he forgot the pain. It was all he could do to process the totality of the woman standing in front of him, pissed like a wild cat, hands on her hips, death rays shooting from her bayou green eyes. She was tan. Long dirty-blonde hair that was natural except for the almost-white streaks on top. She was almost as tall as his six feet with the kind of athletic build that looked good in clothes, great out of clothes.

“Christ,” she said, just before stepping to the door. “Cue, get somebody in here who knows how to set a broken nose. And bring somethin’ to clean up blood for cryin’ out loud.”

Win heard somebody yell. “R.C. What did you do now?”

Boss looked at Win. “Win Garrett, meet my only child. The apple of my eye. R.C.”

Win let go of his nose long enough to wave one bloody hand.

She rolled her eyes. “Jesus,” she said, flopping into a seat, resting one leg on the arm of the chardonnay-colored Chesterfield chair.

She looked polished, pampered, and posh. More like a debutante than an MC princess. Of course, she didn’t talk or act like a debutante. At least not when she was confronting her dad.

Win’s eyes were immediately drawn to the tan leg he could see at the end of her pink pedal-pushers. He followed it down to the perfect foot in flip flops, toes accented by pink polish the same color as the pants. Again, he forgot the pain of his nose long enough to decide that perhaps he didn’t hate pink as much as he’d previously thought.

A woman came through the doorway with a first aid kit. She pulled Win’s hands away from his nose and said, “Ouch. What happened? The Boss punch ya?”

“R.C. happened,” Boss said.

Without looking away from Win, the woman nodded and said, “Oh,” as if that explained everything. “I’m Carla. You feel like walking to my little infirmary?” she asked. Win nodded. “Good. I think you want it to just be you and me when I put this nose back where it belongs.”

He followed behind, not really paying attention to anything except keeping her in sight. The pain was almost blinding.

When they reached the infirmary, she shut the door and told him to sit on the gray vinyl exam table that was identical to what you’d find in any doctor’s office.

He climbed up.

“Take these.” Carla handed him two pills and a bottled water.

He put them in his mouth and swallowed them down with water.

Carla ran the tap in the deep farmhouse sink until it was warm then got a clean rag wet.

“I’m just gonna clean you up,” she said.

She made a couple of painful swipes, though she was trying to be gentle, and then expertly set his nose back in place with no warning.

He yelled out. “No motherfucking warning?!?”

She shrugged. “I find it works out better when guys aren’t all tensed up in anticipation.”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“That’s why I thought you’d like for it to just be you and me. You get to preserve the illusion of macho dignity.”

“My dignity is not an illusion,” he said. “And neither is my manhood.”

She chuckled. “Whatever you say,” she said as she went back to cleaning him up. “So. R.C. punched you?”

Gaping at Carla, he said, “Is that her name? R.C.?”

“Hmmm. Not really. It’s an abbreviation of a nickname. So I guess it can’t get much more complicated than that.”

“No. She did not punch me. We were both of a mind to open a door at the same time. She did it more forcefully.”

Carla’s eyebrows went up. “You mean it was an accident? She didn’t mean to do it?”

“Yes. That’s what I mean. Are you saying she goes around punching people regularly?”

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