Make Me (KPD Motorcycle Patrol 4)

I looked around for a phone, concerned when I didn’t find one.

I needed to be able to call 911 if he dropped to the floor.

When he tossed the inhaler to the messy desk with a carelessness that surprised me, I walked to it and recapped the lid, then walked back to him and tucked it into his pocket again. Just in case.

“Two times,” he rasped, sounding like he’d just gone through a marathon.

I had no clue if it was safe to use it two times, but I had a feeling that he’d used it two times very close together. Meaning something was very wrong.

“Have you been to the doctor?” I wondered.

“Going over lunch, again,” he said.

That was when I threw my hands up in the air.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I asked. “You just nearly died right in front of my eyes. Go to the fuckin’ doctor! Don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars. Fuckin’ go!”

He gestured to the car again, but before he could say he had a deadline, I growled at him.

“Whoever owns that car can go fuck themselves. You’re dumb if you think they’ll be happy that you fixed their car instead of fixing yourself. So. Dumb!” I shouted, but then my bitch switch was flipped when I saw the tiredness etched on his face. “Seriously, let’s go. I’ll take you right now.”

The transition from anger to sweet was a trait that I’d mastered well over time.

“Ummm,” he wondered. “Are you well? Do you have multiple personalities?”

I narrowed my eyes at the man. “Just to let you know, not a single one of my personalities likes you.”

The fact that he didn’t laugh was enough evidence that he seriously wasn’t feeling well.

“Car’s Marcus’ and I have to fix it,” he said. “I want it the fuck out of my shop, because there’s no telling how long it’ll take at the hospital.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Marcus Gomez was the type of person that wouldn’t care whether you were dying or not. He was an asshole. Last month I’d heard a doozy of a story. Apparently, the car detailing place just down the road had his car in and was detailing it. When the owner had to take a break to go get his wife from school, Marcus had driven by and seen it just sitting outside, not being worked on. When asked why, the only person at the shop had explained about the owner having to pick up his wife. And in retaliation for not working on his car until it was finished, Marcus had set the man’s office on fire. Then he’d made him finish the job without any tools.

It was awful to hear about, and even more awful to think that that was just one instance of many.

“What else do you have to do?” I asked curiously.

He walked back over to me, practically ripped the cup out of my hands, and took a deep sip.

He paused, eyes closed for a few seconds, and tested the taste out on his tongue before taking another sip.

He did this until it was empty.

And when he was done, he tossed the cup into the large plastic trash can next to where he was working.

“That wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded when you described it.” He looked down at me. “And all I have left to do is add oil and I’m done.”

The way we were positioned made me feel small with him looking down at me the way he was.

I really wanted to step back, but I didn’t want him to know his superior height made me nervous.

Well, I wasn’t sure it was his height so much as how close he was to me.

Or the fact that I could smell him—a deep pine scent with a hint of orange—over the smell of the garage—burnt motor oil and grease.

“I’ll take you to the doctor when you’re done,” I told him. “I’m due for lunch anyway…and I’m not sure that you should be driving when you’re hacking up a lung like that.”

“I’m not…” He trailed off into another coughing fit.

I raised my brow at him and waited until it was over—thankfully this episode was much shorter than the last.

“You’ll do it,” I told him. “And I’ll be happy to do it.”

He walked over to the car and leaned down into it.

“I’m not sure what to think of you,” he admitted to the motor.

I walked over to him.

“I’m sweet and helpful,” I told him. “You can think of me as a helper.”

“Whatever,” he grunted. “You’re complicated.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I’m a walk in the park,” I argued.

He snorted most gracefully and met my eyes once again. “Sure, a walk down Eleventh Street at two in the morning.”

My mouth dropped open.

“That’s just mean,” I said.

A walk down Eleventh Street any time after the sun dropped was mental. It didn’t matter if it was me or him. Doing it was only asking for trouble.