Mercury Striking (The Scorpius Syndrome #1)(71)

Tace nodded. “You should know. Cruz killed Jax’s brother and Wyatt, and now he’s coming after you. He knows about you.”

Nausea rolled through Lynne’s stomach. “He’s going to have to stand in line to kill me.”

Tace followed and went to check patients one by one, relieving the nurse who’d been on duty. Well, she’d been studying to become a nurse, so good enough. Lynne slipped on gloves and assisted, careful not to touch anybody who looked terrified by her. The group had slowly begun to accept her, and most seemed to believe she couldn’t harm them, but every once in a while more than fear or indifference filled their eyes. A couple loathed her.

Finally, she stood and stretched her back, the muscles protesting. Or maybe the bruises. When Jax had tackled her during the first explosion, she’d hit pretty hard.

They’d patched up folks and sent them on to the main hospital, which used to be a school. Somebody brought them a box of granola bars, which had stood in for dinner.

Tace approached her from the other side of the room. “We’re good here. Why don’t you take advantage of the rain, take a shower, and get some sleep. Unless you have any injuries?” At her shake of the head, he pointed to a bucket in the far corner. “Drop your gloves in the bleach over there. We have to reuse them.”

The mere idea of reusing hospital gloves made her stomach lurch. “I hope we have a lot of bleach.”

“We don’t.”

Great. She gingerly tugged off the gloves.

Tace sighed and leaned back against the wall. “It’s Friday night. Before Scorpius, what would you have been doing?”

Was there life before Scorpius? She paused. “Probably working. But I did have a boyfriend, and we tried to meet up on weekends. I was in Atlanta, and part of the year he was in D.C. So we hit bed-and-breakfasts up the East Coast.” While she hadn’t completely known Bret, he’d had a romantic streak he liked to share. “I also, ah, played poker.”

Tace snorted. “Poker?”

She grinned. “Yeah, at the retirement home. My Mema was in the home, and they had weekly games. Those old broads could make a bundle, usually from me.” Too bad Mema hadn’t survived Scorpius. Lynne needed her wisdom now. “What about you?”

Tace closed his eyes and breathed out, crossing his arms. “On a Friday night? Well, in Afghanistan, I was just trying to survive and tie off blurting arteries. Before that or on leave?” He smiled, revealing startling white teeth. “I was a ladies’ man. Would put on the cowboy hat, the boots, and say ma’am a lot.” He chuckled. “Women loved it.”

Lynne rubbed her tired eyes. “I bet you could dance.”

“The two-step is a work of art.”

A man coughed in pain across the room. Danny? Or Denny. Lynne turned toward him. The guy had been shot in the upper chest, but the bullet had missed the heart.

“I’ve got him. Go.” Tace shoved away from the wall and strode through the odd configuration of beds.

Lynne was too tired to argue. Skirting several cots, she reached the doorway and dropped her gloves into water that appeared almost clean. The faint, very faint, scent of bleach wafted up. Swallowing unease, she wandered into the darkened soup kitchen and made her way to the exit by the showers, which were empty. Apparently anybody who’d wanted to shower had already done so.

Night had fallen and the storm had ebbed, leaving only a soft pattering of rain. Lynne shivered, looking outside. She was already cold, but also muddy and bloody. Yeah, she needed a shower. She toed off her shoes and socks inside, wanting to keep them somewhat dry. What she wouldn’t give for a hot shower. Or even a lukewarm one. Shrugging, she stepped out of her clothes.

If anybody showed up, they could just feel free to check out her bruised and battered body. At this point, who cared?

She slipped outside, and the wind instantly assaulted her. Goose bumps rose on her skin. She ducked her head and ran for the shower, immediately reaching for the soap. The scent of lemon surrounded her, somehow comforting in the dark night. A weak moon peeked through the clouds, offering enough light for her to see the soap.

She washed as quickly as possible and hurried to the stack of worn and ripped towels. But at least they were clean. She hurriedly dried off and grabbed her destroyed clothing, keeping the towel wrapped around her body. She hit the edge of a table in the soup room and hissed, slowing down to reach a lantern on the table. Nobody stopped her as she walked up the stairs and to the quarters she shared with Jax.

She hurriedly dressed in one of his shirts that reached her knees and finger-combed her hair.

The door opened, and Jax stepped inside with a towel wrapped around his waist, the scent of dish soap coming with him. He must’ve been just behind her.

She swallowed. “You okay?”

“Fine.” He dropped wet clothing and boots on the floor, reaching for a pair of black boxers.

Right. He’d just lost a friend, had failed to kill Cruz, and turmoil all but glowed in his eyes. They hadn’t had a chance to talk since the attack earlier that day. Lynne bit her lip and eyed the bed.

“Get in bed, Lynne. We both need sleep, and we can talk tomorrow morning about your blackmail attempt.” The towel hit the floor.

Lynne swallowed and padded across the room to slide under the covers, scooting as far as possible to the other side. Her heart rate picked up, just from the tension. She wouldn’t win a fight with him, and right now, as tired as she felt, she wouldn’t win an argument. Sleep was a good idea.