Cost of Living

Eyes on the road. They had to be on the road, or she was gonna end up running them off of it, right into one of those damn trees. The car would crumple further, the men in the back seat with Dominguez likely to be thrown clear with the force of it and they were all that were keep her from pouring blood into the back of the car.

Rowan’s gaze darted to the rear-view as she squealed off of the rural road and onto something that looked like it led to civilisation at least. Luc’s hands were red, the colour catching her eyes like she was the damn bull in a stupid pen or yard or whatever it was they put them in to wave the rag at them to get them all agitated. She didn’t need any encouragement in that regard, not after their idiot client had panicked.

Screams had filled the yard of the house. Apologies spilling out as fast as Dominguez’s blood. By the time she’d rushed out there Luc already had the man shoved back against the wall of the house, the knife the man had pulled when he’d thought he’d heard someone breaking in through the rear gate peeled from his fingers, laying on the flagstones, its blade scarlet. One of the others had pulled him back inside as the rest of them had scooped Dominguez up. Maybe it would’ve been faster waiting for an ambulance, but Luc had told her to drive, like he was the one in charge, instead of her. His were the ones meeting hers in the mirror now, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He was nodding though, like he knew it was gonna be alright, and she was gonna choose to believe him.

The doctors had appeared seemingly the minute they’d pulled in. They’d loaded Dominguez onto a gurney, Luc and Harris head in with her. She’d moved the car, avoiding a clash with security if they started fussing about a vehicle being left in the ambulance bay, following in their wake with her phone clamped to her ear with bloody fingers. Ingrid wasn’t likely to be happy, the client would probably be cut free for a hefty fee – their operatives’ lives weren’t expendable. It would be a relief that she wouldn’t have to face the asshole again.

Half an hour later Luc and Harris were gone, taking the car back to the office with them. It looked like Dominguez was stable, although the doctors were discussing surgery to close up the wound – it had gone deep enough to do some real muscle damage and without the super-healing half their people possessed the psychic was going to have to heal the hard way. Restless with the wait, Rowan pushed to her feet and headed down the hall, away from the waiting room she’d been directed to. Standing in front of the coffee machine, she fished in her pocket with hands that still bore smudges of Dominquez’s blood – the quick dunk she’d given them in the bathroom hadn’t gotten everything – and found a five-dollar bill. She punched the order into the touch pad. Coffee, black, extra strength, four sugars (although in a hospital she doubted the machine would dispense as much sugar as she wanted). The note slot flashed green for just a moment before it went red, spitting the now crumpled note back at her.

Tipping her head back, Rowan let out a weary groan. She drew in a deep breath, tried again with the same result. Her purse had been in the car, any change that littered the bottom of it now a couple of miles away. She scanned the hallway, spotted a doctor and cringed faintly. Coffee wasn’t half as important as whoever he was probably treating, but it was medicine of a sort, right? ”Excuse me.” She offered up a half smile, holding up the bill. ”You wouldn’t happen to have change? Seems like my money’s not good here.” Humour laced her words, hiding the desperate for a little something to untwist the knot that was still tight in her gut.

Tagged: JULIAN LEROUX * Word Count: 687