Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

122. Out of the Bag

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The low thump of the music over the speakers resumed once Striker and I left the banquet hall. Charlie led us upstairs to the third floor where my old room was, unlocking the door and letting us inside, and Striker carried me through the threshold and gingerly laid me down on the creaky old bed.

"Did she have a bag or anything that might still be downstairs?" Charlie asked.

"I had a purse that I left at the table where Striker was sitting," I answered meekly, prompting Charlie to turn and walk out of the room to search for it.

Striker pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down at my side. "Lemme see your wound, (Y/N)," he murmured, hooking his thumb under the hem of my shirt and lifting the fabric to see my belly. He peeled back a corner of the dressing to peek at my healing wound, then carefully pressed the strips of tape back to my skin. "It's not bleedin'. You just might have a big-ass bruise there in the mornin'."

"You mean a hematoma," I said with a knowing smirk.

He mirrored my expression. "Yeah, that."

My smirk quickly dissolved when I looked up at him, and was replaced by a small disapproving frown.

"What's wrong?"

I let out a dry chuckle, my eyes wandering to the wall beside us. "When you said you've made a lot of enemies in your line of work, you weren't fucking kidding. . ."

Striker blinked, his brows furrowing slightly. "Do you think I started that?"

He clearly saw the disappointment painting my features, and he shook his head, letting out a small scoff in frustration.

"(Y/N), I didn't pick a fight with anybody—he's the one who wanted to start shit. I've been tryin' to avoid him all night." He grimaced, pushing a strand of hair out of my face and adding softly, "For this exact reason. . ."

I pursed my lips and looked back at him, finally noticing the inky black coating the side of his bare forearm. "You're bleeding."

He shook his head again. "Don't worry 'bout it, darlin'. It's just a scratch."

"Looks like too much blood to be just a scratch," I said flatly.

He smiled at me, lifting his uninjured hand and stroking his knuckles against my cheek. "I'm alright, darlin'."

Not long after, Charlie returned to the room with my purse in tow, placing it on the nightstand at my bedside. "Do you want to change clothes, (Y/N)?"

I shook my head. "No, that's okay," I replied. "I'll be fine. I just need a few minutes."

She nodded, her eyes drifting to the blood slowly oozing from Striker's arm. "We should patch that up before it keeps bleeding."

I leaned over and stretched my arm across the nightstand. "I have some spare gauze for my wound in my purse that we could use," I said, reaching into my purse and pulling out a small package of gauze and paper tape. "It's not much, but it'll work."

"Your wound?"

I stiffened, and my eyes darted to Charlie, who stared at me in confusion.

"(Y/N), what wound are you talking about?" She stepped closer to the bed, her brows knitted together. "Is that where that imp hit you?"

My mouth hung open as she pushed the hem of my shirt up just enough to see my belly wound—and the ghostly white streaks that crept from it across my abdomen.

"Is that—from an angelic weapon?" she said quietly, her astonished stare locked on my stomach.

"I—" I wrapped my arms around my belly, tugging my shirt back down to cover myself and muttering a hesitant, "Y-Yes. . ."

"It looks like a bullet wound," she thought aloud, then added in disbelief, "(Y/N), what happened? Who did that to you?"

My stomach lurched. I didn't answer her. How could I? In my uncertainty, my eyes travelled to Striker in the hopes that he might conjure up a believable response for me.

But he didn't. And Charlie examined my expression for a moment before a realization apparently dawned on her. She turned to look at Striker—and more importantly, at the blessing-tipped revolver peeking out of the waistband of his jeans.

"Did you shoot her," she said slowly, "with a holy bullet? "

I could see Striker's body go rigid, and I quickly pushed myself up in the bed to reach for her. "No, Charlie, please—it was an accident. . ."

Charlie straightened up to her full height and she seethed after a brief few seconds of eerie silence: "Get out."

"Charlie—"

She held out a hand toward me, gesturing for me to be quiet. I saw her eyes turn red and her horns emerge from her head as she repeated angrily, "Get out of my hotel now! "

Striker said nothing, but a deep, bitter scowl carved its way onto his face while he held his glare with Charlie. His eyes fell on me after a moment, and he told me in a tone much softer than his expression, "I'll wait for you outside, (Y/N)."

"You will do no such thing," Charlie retorted in a venomous tone. "I'll hold her here for as long as I have to."

"Charlie, stop—" I started.

"Enough, (Y/N)." She pointed toward the door. "Leave. Now."

Striker and I kept eye contact for a moment more, and he grimaced at the pleading look on my face before finally turning to leave the room.

"No," I muttered, shifting to the edge of the bed, ignoring the dull ache in my gut. "Striker. Please, don't leave—please. . ."

His stride slowed slightly for a second or two, but he continued out the door when Charlie followed closely behind him, ensuring he left without another word.