No Saint (Wild Men 6)

“And as I recall, I told you to fuck off.”

I let my hands hang at my sides, clenching my fists and glancing around, marking the spot of each and every guy, trying to figure out the best way to fight them off.

Edward comes at me, shoves me back, and I swing at him. I land a glancing blow on his jaw, and then he’s on me, his buddies following him, hitting me everywhere. I have a flash of worry—wondering if they have knives this time, if the pain I feel means I’m bleeding out and haven’t realized—but by the time I manage to shake Ed and two others off me, the crowd seems to be thinning.

‘What, leaving so soon?” I croak, wiping blood from a cut on my lip.

What the fuck?

And then I register the police car, rolling silently down the road, a familiar face behind the wheel.

Detective John Elba.

Fucking hell.

Suddenly everyone has scattered and I’m the only one left lying in the dirt, tasting dust and rust behind my teeth. I start getting up, groaning when the world swims in my eyes before settling again.

Just another fucking day in the life.

The car stops, and Elba who’s riding shotgun leans out of the window, short-sleeved shirt immaculate, black hair swept back.

“What’s going on here?” he drawls, dark eyes assessing me, then dismissing me and checking the road. I look, too, and find everyone’s gone.

Fuckers. “Look, Detective—”

“Lying down in the middle of the street is not advised, Mr. Jones. Cars pass by on occasion and may not notice you. You could be run over.”

I blink and open my mouth to reply—though, what could I say that won’t implicate me in yet another fight that could send me to jail?

“Well, now that is cleared...” Elba turns to tell his colleague who’s riding shotgun, a severe-faced woman with a bob of blond hair. “Nothing to see here, huh? False alarm.”

I gape at him, my jaw hanging to the floor. The sheriff would jump on the chance to lock me up again, so why does Elba act like a ret— I mean, a dimwit?

Shaking myself, I gather my legs and climb to my feet, licking the metallic taste of blood off my lips, wiping it off my chin, when Elba leans further out of the window and nods at me.

“If you need help in an emergency... any emergency, Mr. Jones... you ask for me by name, okay?”

I stop and stare because, honestly, I can’t think of an answer. Is he for real? He’s offering me help if I ever get into trouble? Should I trust this? Trust him? He’s a fucking cop. No cop has ever given me the time of day, or any reason to trust them, until now.

“Why?” I finally ask.

“Oh, been meaning to tell you. What happened was, Matt Hansen came to see me a couple of times over the years. Told me to keep an eye on you.”

“But I haven’t done anything.”

“I know. I think he feels bad that he accused you wrongly that time of the kidnappings, ya know? Said you’re an okay guy, and family of his wife’s, too, and to look out for you.”

“He said that?” The man hates me. I don’t get it. Unless Merc and Octavia put him up to it... yeah, I could see them strong-arming him somehow into asking this favor of Elba.

“He said that, Mr. Jones,” John Elba confirms, grins at me like we’re sharing a joke I don’t know about, and taps the side of the car. “Be seeing ya.”

The car rolls away and I’m still staring.

Well, fuck. That was weird.

Turning, I shove a hand through my hair, dislodging dirt clumps and fuck knows what else, and come face to face with Jenner.