Floored by Ainslie Paton Page A

guard now and he did need some help. She’d bandage him and wait a few hours till he was asleep, then she’d make her escape.
    She found her room. It was twice the size of his, and only half as grubby. Facing the back there was no noise from the road. She dumped her satchel, took off her jacket and hat and undid the twist that held her hair in place, snaking her fingers through it, letting it fall down her back. She went to the bathroom and washed her face, then put her hair back up. That took all of five minutes. She sat on the edge of the bed. She was bone tired. It would be great to lie down and sleep for an hour or so. Maybe that was a good idea. She could do her Florence Nightingale thing, then shower, sleep for a few hours and take off well before eight in the morning.
    She sat there counting off the minutes. She couldn’t wait to be done with him—good cop, bad cop, playing-both-sides cop—whoever he was. At exactly the fifteen minute mark she went back downstairs to his room. He opened the door wearing a pair of black trackpants that hugged his hips, no shoes, no shirt. There were beads of water on his torso and his hair was wet, slicked back and tied in a ponytail. He was holding the towel to his arm.
    “I wondered if I’d ever see you again.” He closed the door behind her.
    “Why? We have a business deal.” That came out sounding appropriately stroppy. Well, what do you know, she could act too. It’d been the overwhelming feature of her new life.
    He grinned. “And that never stopped anyone doing the dirty.”
    She ignored that. It seemed best. “Would you mind leaving the door open?”
    “Yeah, I would. There’s a family next door, the kids were running in and out. They don’t need to see this.”
    He was right. There was a kid bouncing a ball in the walkway when she’d come down the stairs. Wasn’t that convenient. Was he the sort of cop who had ball-bouncing kid cops on tap when he needed them as decoys?
    Okay, she was officially freaked out to even have that thought.
    “Driver, I’m in no position to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
    “It’s just…”
    “Yeah, I know, not professional. I’ll make another deal with you. Unless I need to get slashed again and I’m bleeding to death, you don’t need to come inside my room. Same goes for you. I won’t cross the threshold of your room unless you get hurt. Fair?”
    She frowned. “Fair.” But he’d made it sound like he’d gotten slashed on purpose and it was a regular occurrence, and that was one more piece of disturbing information.
    He pulled a chair out from the table and sat. “Is your hair curly?”
    She fumbled with the lid of the Betadine.
    “It’s the same colour as mine. I wondered if it had curl like mine.”
    He was bleeding to death and wanted to talk about hair texture. What kind of bikie did that? What kind of cop? Maybe he was gay on top of being a macho idiot who got himself slashed in a knife fight and let a man called Wacker terrify him by telephone.
    “And we both drink flat whites. We must be long lost cousins,” she said, aiming low with sarcasm.
    “See, you’re funny. I figure there’s some Irish in you.”
    Now would be the time to tell him she was Greek or Croatian or Mexican. Now would be a good time to tell him nothing. “Let me see your arm.”
    “I should’ve asked if you were okay with blood, with things like this. Can’t have you fainting on me.”
    “I’m fine with it. I’ve had basic first aid training.”
    “Good to know.” He unwound the towel. There was a tattoo on that arm too. A bright-coloured Harley drawn with wings as though it could fly, and red and green and yellow flames as though it was thermonuclear. It was almost pretty. The gash was about ten centimetres long, a clean, straight angry cut, right under the edge of the tattoo like raw underline. It was long past Betadine alone.
    “This needs stitching.”
    “It’s not deep enough.”
    “It’s deep