Chapter 11

Bunny

“I hate rental cars,” grouses The Kid from the backseat.

“You hate rental cars? Or…” my face curls around the edge of the headrest to flash him a sassy smirk, “you hate this rental car because it’s in Garcia’s name?”

“It can be both.”

“But is it?”

His bright blue gaze instantly narrows. “I hate the way they smell.”

“Clean?”

“ Stale. ”

I resume facing forward on a small giggle as Nolan exits the highway.

“With the worst fuckin’ scents.” More grunts of unhappiness are expelled. “Fresh leather air fresheners are so fucking stupid.” He huffs again. “And lazy.” Additional fidgeting is heard. “And an insult to a person’s senses.”

“You love the smell of fresh leather, Kid,” Mutt effortlessly argues.

“Yeah, from actual leather.”

“Which this car has,” I casually point out.

“But isn’t producing that godawful stench!”

There’s no time to fight back.

“I know the difference!” He squeaks, warranting another look over my shoulder. “Just like I know the difference between owned cars and rental cars. Rental cars have no soul.” Kipp tries to pull on his locked seatbelt. “And this one is no exception just ‘cause our attorney rented it for us.” An almost smug smile slips into place. “You know they say lawyers are soulless too.”

Nolan shoots him an unamused glare in the rearview mirror. “Garcia has a fuckin’ soul, Kid. Why else do you think he’d go to lengths this extreme to help protect Rabbit?”

“He’s paid to.”

“Not for the strings he’s been pullin’.”

At that, The Kid shifts his head to look out the window and flicks his bright orange sunglasses downward to cover his eyes.

He’s been super fucking moody all week.

Now, I don’t know if it’s because he’s on edge about what we may find out at the doctor today or having me “exposed” in unfamiliar territory or perhaps it’s just the fact that Nolan’s back to missing for long stretches of the night for tow work leaving Kipp left to worry that something horrible is going to happen while he’s gone.

It could be any of those things.

It could be none.

It could be one or two plus something else.

I have no clue.

For the first time since I moved in, he’s holding back.

I don’t know what.

And I don’t know why.

And I don’t like it.

It’s almost like having a sick puppy that you know is sick but can’t tell you what’s wrong.

Or in this case won’t.

Maybe the dark and vile shit we’ve done is simply catching up to him.

Maybe it’s eating him alive.

Maybe he’s starting to regret how far we’ve gone.

How far he’s willing to go.

Maybe he’s regretting his relationship with me.

Us.

As if my thoughts are being plastered across my face, Nolan places a soft palm on my inner thigh and delivers a gentle pat, wordlessly telling me to relax.

That everything is okay.

That everything is going to be okay.

Just like it always is.

After agreeing in the form of a small nod, I steal a glance at the side mirror just in time to see a black, luxury SUV drift over into our lane. While there’s a white sportscar spaced between the two of us, its small size doesn’t act as a substantial shield from what could easily be an enemy’s vehicle.

Paranoia has me pressing my curly, blond wig covered head slightly harder against the window.

Holding my breath and squinting like it’s magically going to give me better vision.

We arrive at a stoplight, which is when the vehicle I’m watching cuts over into the turn lane, allowing them an open opportunity to pull up directly beside us.

Open fire.

Attack.

Make an attempt to grab me and drive off.

Instinct has my left hand reaching for the weapon wedged between the seat and console; however, the second the SUV appears directly in view, relief immediately washes over me alongside a deep exhale. Seeing a couple clearly arguing about a GPS misunderstanding – considering how they keep pointing to the screen in the middle – threatens to make me smile much like the small child fast asleep in the backseat.

I remember my parents always argued over directions whenever we traveled.

They’d do their best not to yell yet the whispered snipping was for some reason much worse.

Although, those spats often ended with me getting a Kit Kat bar.

And I love Kit Kat bars.

“Can we get a Kit Kat bar on the way home?” I ask at the same time I cut my driving boyfriend a glance. “I’m…suddenly…having a craving.”

“You sure that’s the ‘break’ your craving, Rabbit?” questions Mutt on a waggling of his eyebrows. “”Cause I’m more than happy to break you off a piece of somethin’ else.”

“The bear mace threat I made early in our relationship still stands.”

He lightly chuckles and adjusts the aviator sunglasses blocking most of his face.

Out of the three of us, he lucked out on easy disguises.

Gray sweats.

Gym bag.

Aviator sunglasses.

Garcia described the whole look to be “midlife marriage crisis” which I then enhanced with a “mistress persona” of a blond wig, getting rid of my tongue ring, a mini sweater dress – that I swear my ass can literally be seen in – thigh high boots, a set of fake butterfly tattoos on the back of my legs as well as an Audrey Hepburn pair of black sunglasses and matching oversized hat.

I look like something out of a very badly cast b movie.

And so does The Kid.

He’s playing the role of young personal assistant to our boyfriend in a very expensive attire that’s complete with the overly gelled back hair, “trendy” sunglasses and “keeping your life together” tablet. Said device is actually doubling as a secure communication outlet to Garcia to keep him informed of our whereabouts, notable discoveries, and literal eyes on the situation.

No one is taking being this far from home lightly.

Especially not me.

Our right turn at the next light is followed by a left into a medical strip center beside a hospital about three minutes down the road.

The lack of suspicious activity during our drive is both relieving and unsettling.

It’s not that I want us to be followed or attacked, it’s just that anytime we momentarily believe we aren’t is the moment when someone strikes.

We have to keep our guards up.

Every step of the way.

Upon getting out of the cherry red Range Rover that matches my lipstick, Nolan drapes an arm around my shoulder, adding an extra amount of cover, during our walk across the parking lot.

“ Brights on, Kid, ” our boyfriend mutters under his breath. “ To your right. ”

Kipp lifts the device with the camera option on and loudly pretends to be working, “Mr. Toretto, your accountant wants to know if this is the right amount?”

I poorly stifle my snicker over Nolan’s grumble, “ Really? Toretto? ”

“Is this wrong?” Amusement dances freely in his voice at the same time he hits the capture button. “Did you not spend this amount on massages in L.A. last weekend?”

The person in the distance seems to pay no attention to us allowing their faked conversation to fade more into a background noise level. “ L.A.? ” We step onto the curb in tandem. “ Are you really just gonna pull everything you can from those movies? ”

“Absolutely.” His smug smirk precedes him rushing to open the door for us. “That’s the only way this is going to be fun for me. ”

Kipp not only holds it, but he also cleverly snaps shots of those already inside. Getting them over to Garcia who will get them over to his P.I. and tech person to search through for suspicious people with any possible ties directly to Brad or ties to the bounty hunters or cops who have bothered us is the secondary part of this mission, with the first of course being to discover if I’ve physically got any sort of tracker in my body.

Honestly?

I hope I don’t.

I hope that my body hasn’t been violated in a new and horrifying way.

Do I want answers?

Yes.

Of course.

Do I want shit to make sense that hasn’t?

Definitely.

But do I want to find out that I’ve been unknowingly bugged with a listening device or tracking device for some unknown amount of time?

No.

I’m not sure I’d ever feel literally safe in my own skin again.

Inside the small building, Nolan and I head for the front desk, leaving The Kid to casually grab a few more photos while pretending to search for a place to sit.

The older woman behind the desk stops smacking on her gum to ask, “Can I help you?”

“Checking in for B,” Mutt quietly informs, “B. Ripley.”

After a brief stretch of clacking sounds, she questions, “For Dr. Garcia at four?”

“Correct.”

“Yeah,” the woman mindlessly retorts prior to reaching for a clipboard. “Fill out this form and we’ll call you when we’re ready.”

He takes the offering leaving me to remain the voiceless bimbo I’m pretending to be.

Towards the back corner, we set up shop next to The Kid, with me settled comfortably between them, both men obviously on guard.

“ Anything? ” Nolan whispers to him as I retrieve my Mickey Mouse pen from the mini handbag that’s been hanging from my wrist.

“ Negative. ”

“ You send them? ”

His nodding is followed by me retrieving the information sheet and whispering, “ How honest am I supposed to be on this thing? ”

“ Completely? ” Mutt extends an arm around the back of my chair. “ It should be protected information. ”

“ Should be, doesn’t mean it will be, Mr. Toretto, ” The Kid less than gingerly reminds.

“ I’m not calling you O’Connor. ”

“ What about Walker? ” our boyfriend pokes back. “ I could be a Walker. ”

“ You could be a Nolan ,” he possessively flirts, “ which is what you and little Ms. Ripley here will both be when all this is through. Understood? ”

Hungry groans thoughtlessly seep out of Kipp, “ Yes, Sir. ”

Despite The Kid’s moodiness, his horniness hasn’t subsided.

And neither has mine.

And if it weren’t for the whole probably shouldn’t have an appointment full of cum thing, we probably would’ve had a quicky before meeting Nolan at the rental vehicle.

I decide it’s in my safest interest to swap minor information like the month and day of my birthday yet keep the year the same.

Mark my emergency contact information with my boyfriends’ first names but swap their last.

Use Garcia’s office address – that’s listened on his business card – as my home address.

However, in the family history section, I allow myself to actually be honest just in case something else turns up during the examination.

Having checked boxes about both my mother and father leads me to glancing over to Nolan who’s clearly watching the entire room for suspicious movement and proclaiming, “ You know I just realized…I don’t know anything about where you come from. ”

His attention suddenly shifts to me.

“ Him ,” my pen points to our partner, “ so much. But you? ” I can’t stop my head from tilting to one side. “ Basically nothing. ”

“ Well…like us…he’s an only child ,” The Kid tries to helpfully inform.

“ Not true. ” Nolan’s statement is attached to an uncomfortable wiggling in his seat. “ I have a sister. ”

“ You have a sister?! ” screeches the male on the other side of me. “ Since when?! ”

“ Since I was born. ” His small shrug is clearly indifferent. “ She ran away at fifteen. Haven’t seen her since. ”

“ Have you looked for her? ” I cautiously investigate.

“ Not in over a decade. ”

“ Should we look for her? ” The pen in my hand is gripped tighter. “ When all this is over? Should we have Garcia help find her? ”

“ He’s already tried. ”

Grumbles of disapproval aren’t easy to speak over, yet I do. “ What about your parents? Did they look for her? Are they? Are they even alive? ”

“ No. ” Ignoring the coldness in his tone is impossible. “ They died forever ago. ”

“ Accidents? Old age? Medical conditions we should worry you have? ”

“ Murder suicide. ”

“ Fuckin’ seriously?! ” The Kid croaks.

“ What?!” leaves me in a squawking fashion. “ When?! How old were you?! ”

“ Eighteen. ”

“ How could you not tell me that?! ” our boyfriend discreetly barks.

“ Wasn’t important. ”

“ How is that shit not important?! ” he hisses again. “ You know practically everything about me! ”

“ Fine. ” Nolan calmly retracts. “ It. Wasn’t. Relative. ”

“ Why are you the only one who gets to make that fucking call?! ”

“ Kid- ”

“ Why is everything and anything I do and anyone and everyone I know a look under my fucking hood matter while you never hit the pop trunk button. ”

“ Kid- ”

“ How can you say shit like you want me to have your last name when it’s clear I don’t even know who the fuck you are?! ”

“ Kid-”

“Ripley,” calls out a bright pink scrub wearing round woman from the opposite end of the room. “B. Ripley.”

A large, theatrical wave is given to indicate she’s been heard to which she enthusiastically waves me to the back area. I drop my pen into my purse and rise to my feet; however, the instant that I do, my two men attempt to follow forcing me to insist, “ No. You two wait out here. It’ll look less suspicious. ”

Two sets of objections rush my way only to be ignored.

I mean…it will look less suspicious, but I also need a moment alone.

A moment to do something for me on my own.

And they…they clearly need a moment to sort through the shit I didn’t mean to accidentally kick up.

Nurse Minnie Marlowe escorts me to a patient room down the hall, making flattering conversation about my outfit the entire way. Once we’re inside, we go over a few basic questions I didn’t get to on the form as well as the purpose of today’s visit. Our time together is brief and thankfully, my wait to see the doctor herself is even shorter.

The honey-pecan skinned white coat wearing female who enters the room fills me with relief and jealousy alike.

I know it’s wrong, but I’m grateful the guys are stuck in the lobby.

This woman is too pretty to be a fucking doctor.

Which is an asinine thing to think.

But like…still.

She is.

Did her modeling gig get cancelled too soon?

“Miss Ripley?”

There’s no hesitation to nod.

“I’m Dr. Garcia,” she warmly states at the same time she extends an open palm at me, “but you can call me Dr. G.” Her perfect pout lips curl upward. “Dr. Garcia is my dad.” A playful sneer is offered afterward. “ And my abuelo. ”

“A family of doctors?” Crossing one leg over the other occurs on a small snicker. “How’d your brother luck out?”

“He made an interesting case against not being one when we were kid’s which led him to where he is now.” This time we giggle together. “Besides, Vic is a little squeamish when it comes to the really gross stuff.”

Certainly not the impression I gathered.

“The guy can barely hold it together when abuela makes menudo from scratch.”

“Why? What’s in menudo ?”

“Beef tripe.”

“Is that like a tricep of a cow? Do cows even have triceps?”

“It’s stomach lining.”

Dry heaving motions occur without a second thought.

“Yeah, the shit’s not for everyone, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say our abuela’s menudo could turn the biggest nonbeliever into the most devout follower two spoonfuls in.”

Another round of light giggles leaves me.

“Now, he didn’t tell me much , but he told me enough .” She scans her keycard to be given access to her computer. “Today, you’ll be receiving a full physical – free of charge per training hospital rules – as well as a full bloodwork panel and a full body scan – although considering what might be in your body, we may be exploring that in a less traditional fashion. Please, be aware that the cost of the other procedures has already been completely covered.”

“But-”

“Nope,” Dr. G effortlessly denies. “Covered is covered. And that’s all I will be say regarding it.”

Why do I get the feeling Garcia is responsible for that?

And why do I feel like he’s not the only one good at arguing in their family?

“Let’s pull up your chart and touch base on a few things,” she insists in tandem with completing the action. “Nothing in family history…” Scrolling casually begins. “Nothing in known procedures…” More mouse movement. “No known allergies…” All of a sudden, she hums and turns her attention to me. “Looks like Minnie forgot to mark the dates of your last menstrual cycle. Can you recall when it was?”

“Sure. It was-” the abrupt midsentence stopping is accompanied by me leaning back in my chair.

When was it?

Was it that long ago?

It doesn’t feel that way.

Then again with everything that’s been happening lately time has sort of began to blur together.

“Can’t remember?” Dr. G sweetly investigates.

“Um…actually…I can’t.”

“Not exactly surprised considering the intensity and trauma of your situation – which we will dive just a smidgen into for medical reasons only – however, perhaps we can gather an approximate date? How are your cycles typically? Steady? Monthly? Little longer? Little shorter? Abnormal?”

“Monthly,” is airily exclaimed. “They’ve…always…been…monthly.”

“I see.” Cautiousness cakes her voice. “And you… can’t remember if you’ve had one this month?”

I shake my head.

“Do you recall having one last month?”

I reluctantly repeat the action.

“ Miss Ripley, ” the curly haired woman across from me slowly begins, “ have you considered the possibility that you might be pregnant? ”