Read Online Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) by Phillip Thomas Duck - Free Book Online

watching the road out of her side window, every now and then spiderwalking her fingers up the glass. A venomous black widow, I thought. That little bit of movement seemed to be a labor for her. If I were a better man I would’ve spoken to her, told her of the shadows that covered me and all of my thoughts. But I didn’t, and less than thirty minutes into the drive I brought the Yukon to an idle at the foot of an opulent mansion. It had been built in 1930, existed as a private property the majority of its lifetime. But now it was a ten-room, luxury hotel, perhaps the finest in all of Miami. And not just any mansion, either. A jewel in the Versace family’s crown.
    “Casa Casuarina,” the naked woman with the hearts-and-vines tattoo said.
    She wasn’t naked at the moment, but still had the tattoo. She’d have that forever. It was hard for me to believe that anything could ever really last forever.
    I exhaled, said, “I booked the La Mer suite for seven nights.”
    One king-sized bed, six hundred and ten square feet of top-shelf living space, a balcony with a pool and garden view, fully stocked minibar, bidet, marble bathroom, mosaic-tiled floors and stained glass windows. Close to seven hundred dollars per night. And worth every cent.
    “It’s gorgeous, Shell.”
    “It is,” I said.
    I helped her with her luggage. Two rich leather pieces, both very heavy. One I hefted and carried on my shoulder like a basket of folded laundry. The other I underarmed with a similarly easy effort. Adrenaline fueled my every move. Our valet offered to get us assistance. I declined. I could’ve put the Yukon on my back and climbed the stairs at that point.
    In the room, the naked woman with the hearts-and-vines tattoo walked around touching all of the accoutrements. Trailing her slender fingertips over all the surfaces. The one king-sized bed. The walls. Chairs. Tables. Touching everything with the tender care of a long time lover. Touching everything with an appreciation that looked as though it would never fade.
    I stood by silently, watching her, admiring her.
    She was without question a beautiful woman.
    After some time, she turned to me, a brave smile on her face.
    “Rough-hewn,” she said, gazing at me, crinkles at the corners of her eyes.
    “What?”
    “Rough-hewn,” she repeated.
    “Not in the mood for riddles,” I said.
    She nodded, swallowed hard. Then she surveyed the room again. Some strength came to her shoulders; she adjusted her posture, held her head high, as though peering at skyscrapers in one of the world’s great cities. Paris. New York. It took a moment, but eventually her gaze found its way back to me. I noticed a slight tremble in her lip. It was subtle but real. Emotions painted her entire face. She said, “Rough-hewn,” for the third time.
    I stood silent.
    She hugged herself, shuddered. “That’s how everyone that knows of you describes you,” she said. “I’ve balked at accepting it. Done my best to believe otherwise.”
    “Accept it,” I said. “Believe it.”
    “You have a wonderful side,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard me, “And a not so wonderful side, too. I’ve been warned about you. More than once. I’ve been foolish. I should have listened.”
    “You shouldn’t talk about us to anyone.”
    “Some of us are unable to live in a cocoon where we can hide from those we’ve hurt and worse.”
    That wasn’t just a throwaway statement. It was a well-aimed dart.
    My nostrils flared. I said, “If you were a man talking like that I’d smack you down.”
    “Can’t handle the truth? As much as you like to pretend your Network is truly shut down, we both know it’s just hibernating until the moment you—”
    I took steps toward her, repeating, “Smack you down.”
    A couple of steps and her insanity vanished. Her shoulders went slack. I stopped moving again.
    She said, softly, “You scare me at times, Shell.”
    I nodded.
    “I hate how you talk to me when you’re