Serendipity (Southern Comfort)

Lisa Clark O’Neill

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AVA Martinez tried everything short of setting the unconscious man’s pants on fire to get him to wake up.

It was a damn shame she didn’t have a match.

Shaking him hadn’t worked.  Nor had slapping, poking, hair-yanking, begging or kissing him on his very fine mouth.  Fighting panic, she looked at the cup in her hand with desperation.  The frigid water from the bottom of the ice machine appeared to be her last hope. 

She knew he wasn’t dead – yet – because his broad chest rose and fell beneath
his
torn
oxford-cloth shirt.  But dishabille was the least of his problems.  When she’d pulled the hair-yanking thing out of her bag of tricks, she’d felt the sticky, golf ball-sized lump erupting from his disordered mop of dark curls. 

At least the bleeding appeared to have stopped, which meant he probably wasn’t in danger of dying before she got him out of the stupid trunk. 

If
she got him out.  With all the luck she was having, the sucker’s chances weren’t looking too good.

Frustrated, Ava wiped her damp palm on her linen pants before remembering it was covered in blood. 

“Buddy.”  She glared at the inert form stuffed like a sausage into the Impala’s casing.  “No offense, but I’m starting to wish I’d stayed home tonight.”

She shuddered to think of why she hadn’t.  Summoned to her uncle’s club – a dressed-up titty bar that called itself a “gentleman’s club,” though judging from what went on in those back rooms, she figured it was anything but – Ava had been reaching for the back door handle when she overheard the club’s manager, Ricardo, cursing out a pair of Uncle Carlos’s goons.  His voice rose
over the nocturnal din of frogs and
the cheesy music pulsing through the blackened window, explaining how the goons were idiots because they’d somehow kidnapped the wrong man.

Ava couldn’t say she blamed him.  U.S. attorney Stephen Finch – the man they were apparently supposed to have shanghaied – was about five-eight, one hundred and fifty pounds, and the color of an espresso bean. 

The man bleeding all over the trunk of the goons’ car was a six feet plus Caucasian, and pushing two hundred pounds if he was an ounce. Ava had the backache to prove it.  But wrong man or not, she knew for a fact what was going to happen if she didn’t get him moving.

Her uncle’s men were going to kill him anyway.

It was difficult to believe Carlos had attempted to kidnap the prosecutor in charge of her father’s case.  The sonofabitch thought he was untouchable, but this was ballsy, even for him.

But then what was a little kidnapping an
d murder when you already operated
one of
the biggest crime syndicate
s
in the South? 

Shoving aside her angry thoughts, Ava glanced back at the unconscious stranger.  Regardless of who he was, he was dead if she didn’t move him. So she picked up the cup, tossed the icy water in his face, mentally saying a prayer as she held her breath.

Relief jellied her legs when his wet lashes fluttered.  He squinted against the light and certain pain – not to mention the freezing water – before shifting his gaze toward her.

And Ava felt like she was the one who’d been doused.
Even in the dim light, t
he guy’s eyes were stunning. The color of those blue flowers – what the hell were they called? – that grew alongside the road in summer.

She found herself staring, fascinated, until common sense kicked in.

The frogs had grown louder.

The frogs had grown louder, because the angry voices from inside the club had quieted down.  Figuring it was only a matter of time before the goons spilled back out like deranged monkeys from a barrel, Ava forgot about his eyes, wrapping her hands around his arms to urge the bulk of him up.

“Come on, buddy.” Frustration gave way to urgency. “You’ve got to help me out a little.  I can’t move you all by myself.  Believe me, I’ve tried.”

He sat up, hit his head, and fell flat on his back.

“Oh no, you don’t.”  Ava jerked his arm.  “You’ve already ruined my best pair of pants and just about put me in traction.  The least you can do is haul your butt out of this damn trunk.”

She threw a worried glance over her shoulder.  “Sit up, and watch your head.  If you knock yourself out again, I’m leaving you on your own.”

“Sure.  Fine,” he slurred.  “Do you think you could stop clawing me now?” 

He moved like wet cement, but Ava lessened her hold.  “Now how about trying to stand?  You can lean on me if you have to.”  Though if he stumbled, they were both going down.  Seeing as how he was built like a water buffalo, gravity wasn’t working in their favor.

“Your nails are too long.”

“What?”  

“I said your nails are too long.  You scratched my arm.”  He hefted his limb to show her three red gouges beneath his rolled sleeve.

“Yeah well, that’s the least of your worries.  If you don’t get yourself out of that trunk soon, something a hell of a lot sharper is going to be scratching you.  The goons in there have a penchant for blades, and you’ve got plenty of square footage to carve on.  This is the last time I’m going to tell you. You need to haul ass.” 

“Where’s my shoe?”

“What?”

“My shoe,” he repeated, pointing toward the huge sock-clad foot dangling against the license plate’s chain holder. 

Ava didn’t waste the time to tell him it wasn’t important.  She simply looked through the fat curls of fog cre
e
p
ing
like fingers over the asphalt, finally spotting it lying drunkenly against the
vintage
Chevy’s back tire.  “Here.”  She scooped it up.  “It must have come off when I tried to drag you out of there.”

“You tried to drag me out of here?”

Her patience with his lack of comprehension was all used up.  “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past ten minutes?  Now pay attention.” She clapped her hands, hating the fact that they’d started to shake.  “Either you get out of that trunk and into my car, or the men who hit you over the head
and roughed you up
are going to come back here and finish the job.  And believe me, you’ll wish they hit you hard enough to kill you the first time.  So please.”  She swallowed, hard.  “Hurry.”

Ava wedged herself under his shoulder to help ease him to his feet, and he draped himself around her.  They wobbled, Ava cursing the vanity that consistently provoked her into wearing three-inch heels, but managed to shamble forward. 

Until he touched the knot on his head, drawing them both to a stop.  “I’m bleeding.”

“No kidding.” She used her hip to shove him forward, not unlike a large and unwieldy chest of drawers.  He half climbed, half fell through the open passenger door, and she crammed his right leg in.

“Ouch!” He shot her some irritation when she slid quickly into the driver’s seat. “What’s going on?”

Ava didn’t bother answering him.  She was entirely too focused on putting as much distance between them and that parking lot as humanly possible.  Luckily, the music coming from inside the club was loud, so Ricardo and the goons probably hadn’t heard her peal out.

Probably.

“Was there an accident?”

“You could say that.” Ava flicked a glance at her rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed.  No goons running out of the building, no Impala on her tail.  When she caught the guy staring at her she shook her dark hair to form a curtain, not wanting him to get a good look at her face.  Temporarily stymied, he leaned back and closed his eyes. 

And proceeded to bleed all over the headrest. 

“Did you see what happened to my car?” 

Resigned to spending the next day cleaning the evidence from her passenger seat, Ava shook her head.  She had no idea where his car was, or what condition it might be in, so she kept her gaze focused on the climb over the bridge.  The lights of Savannah shimmered through the veil of mist shrouding the river, the gold dome of City Hall the shining crown of the Hostess City.

Her city.  And she’d be damned if she let her uncle ruin this one for her, too.

“Is it totaled?”  Her passenger managed to stir himself to ask.  “Damn it, the thing’s brand new.”

He sounded miserable, but Ava wasn’t about to correct his misinterpretation.  The less he knew, the better.  She detoured off the interstate, taking a circuitous route to the hospital.  If they were caught it would spell a heap of trouble for her, and certain death for him.

Ava slid a glance his direction.  It appeared he’d passed out again, which truth be told was fine by her.  Better if he didn’t remember one thing about the night’s misadventure.

In a quick blink, he opened his truly amazing eyes.  Remembering that she didn’t want him to get a good look at her face, she turned her attention back to the road.

“You’re not injured, are you?” 

“What?”

“In the accident,” he explained.  “You weren’t injured, were you?  Did I hit your car?” 

She wanted to point out that they were driving her car, but the poor guy obviously wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “I’m fine.”

“That’s good.”

Since he was no longer looking at her, Ava snuck another glance.  The man was damn easy on t
he eyes.  His wife
would certainly be happy that she’d saved him.  She took a hasty peek at his ring finger.  No wedding band.
Well, his girlfriend would be happy.  Or boyfriend, for that matter
.

“Where are we going?”

Jerking her eyes away from his hand, Ava returned her focus to the darkened street.  Gas flame streetlights pushed back the worst of the fog to boil in the shadows of time-worn buildings, and Spanish moss dripped like loose skin from the gnarled limbs of ancient oaks. 

A pair of headlights appeared in her rearview mirror, making her nerves jump like Mexican beans.

Controlling a shiver, she cast another quick glance at her passenger. “I’m taking you to the hospital. Someone needs to take a look at your head.”  Given his slurred speech, the way he’d moved like he was walking through molasses, she was fairly certain he had a concussion.

“I think I might get sick.”

Concussion symptom three. “Not in my car, you won’t.”  She reached into the back seat, grabbing the paper sack of fruit she’d bought from a roadside stand.  “Here.”

He peered at a melon.  “I’m not really hungry.”

“Use the bag.”  And her tone added
moron
before she had a chance to think how unfair that was.  “If you feel like you’re going to be sick, dump the fruit out and use the bag.”

He clutched it between his large hands, then subsided against the headrest.  The car behind her turned off, and Ava’s jittering nerves flashed back to anger.  It wasn’t like her uncle hadn’t done similar shit before.  But she’d made it pretty clear to her father that she wanted no part of that life.

He’d understood completely, which was why she was so surprised when she heeded Ricardo’s call, inadvertently stumbling int
o her current mess.  Either her father
had lied to her, or he didn’t
know what his brother was up
to.  Both thoughts infuriated her.  How was she supposed to lead a normal life, when her family conspired against her?  But this was it, Ava assured herself.  No more.

Once she got this man out of her car, she was through playing her uncle’s games. 

The emergency room appeared like a glowing beehive through the fog, buzzing with people and activity, and relief crumpled her shoulders.  She turned to her passenger and nudged him.  “O
kay, Blue Eyes.  Ride’s over
.”