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Only one thought consumes me more than the wanting of the strange girl...
Ashely's going to kill me.
Our plan is totally fucked. We’ll have to come clean. With someone taking a shot at me, the whole family is now involved.
One good thing about getting shot? I’m no longer craving a smoke. I think I’ve finally quit for good.
I get home. Call Doc to clean me up. I'm even luckier than I thought—not only was the guy a bad shot, the doc easily removes the lodged bullet in one piece. He explains my trance-like state in the street when I passed back out as my body being in shock. He covers me in blankets to warm me and elevates my feet, but the hazy feeling has already passed, leaving my mind clear and sharp to pick up the pieces from last night.
I only let him numb the area he was working on, refusing pain meds. I'm gritting my teeth as he gets me stitched up.
He’s finally all done, packing up his bag. I glance down at the clean bandage he’s attached to my chest. “Thanks, Doctor T, but I think I wasted your time.”
“What do you mean?” Dr. Thomas pauses his packing. He looks up at me over the thick frames of his glasses. “Please tell me you’re not planning on getting yourself shot again?”
“The bullet might not have killed me, but I’m dead all the same.”
He gives me a curious stare.
How do I explain that I’m about to be murdered?
Chapter Seven
Beckett
Exhausted, I sleep for a few hours. When I wake up, Ashely's there by my side, ready to kill me. Seeing her face fills me with relief and makes me want to go back to sleep.
I may have survived the gunshot, but big sister’s wrath is a whole ‘nother story.
"A." I offer her a cocky grin. "You bring me anything to eat?"
“Seriously?” She looks like she wants to smack me. "You little stinker. You had me terrified! I couldn’t find you after the event, but figured you were at the club, so I didn’t do my typical big sister thing and try to track you down, only to find out this morning that you were shot!”
I wait for her to finish her rant.
She pushes a stray lock of blonde hair back from her face. "And of course, I brought you food. Your favorite baked mac-n-cheese and Boston's chocolate chip cookies."
I’m so fucking lucky. Not only is my sister an excellent cook, but my brother-in-law is also a stress-baker, whipping up delicious concoctions whenever he’s under stress.
I’m sorry I’m the source of his stress, but the smell of chocolate and butter hits me and all I can think is, "Did you bring milk?"
How can anyone eat cookies without it?
"Geez. You're the only grown man I know who still drinks milk. But yes. I brought you 2%. You gotta watch that cholesterol. We're getting older, you know." She leans down, planting a kiss on my forehead. "Thank God you're going to live to see another year."
"Live? Why wouldn't I have lived?" I wipe what I’m sure is left-behind red lipstick from my skin. I don’t say anything about the overdone lipstick on her mouth—it’s my fault she’s wearing so much of it.
"Really? Are you being serious right now? You were shot." Her annoyed gaze travels to the bandage on my shoulder.
"‘Tis but a scratch," I say, running my fingertips lightly up my bare chest, over the soft bandage. It's sore there, even with my whisper-light touch. "This is gonna hurt like a mofo when I'm lifting."
"You know I hate that word, Beckett,” she says.
“Mofo? It’s not even a real word.”
“But you know I don’t like what it stands for. And lifting? Absolutely not. Not gonna happen. And I'll be threatening the boys with a long and painful death if they let you so much as touch a barbell before the doctor clears you."
“How long will that be?” I ask.
