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I looked up to find the detectives that had questioned us and found them standing over by the still rather large congealed pool of blood that was on the floor where Slate had tackled the gunman—Andy.
Andy’s head had hit the floor so hard that it’d split open like an egg.
And funny enough, I was the one to X-ray him.
“Cool,” I muttered, standing up.
“You have a Post-It note stuck to your ass,” he said as I stretched.
I reached back and patted my butt, not finding anything.
“Where?” I asked as I tried to turn and find it, but my body was stiff, not only from it being a long day at work but from being slapped across the face so hard that my neck had received whiplash.
“There,” he pointed to it.
I still couldn’t see it.
“Just get it off,” I ordered.
He reached forward reverently, plucked the sticky note off my ass, then placed it back onto the counter that I had been sitting on. He’d been leaning on it, which explained why he didn’t have any notes on his ass.
Not that I could see his ass in this current position.
Though, I had seen quite a bit of it today from where I’d been allowed to admire it for hours.
“Did it at least say something good?” I asked curiously.
His lips twitched as he turned to read what the note said. “No.”
I squinted at him. “What did it say?”
“No rectal temp required,” he said without cracking even an iota of a smile.
“You’re shitting me.” I moved closer. “It doesn’t really say that.”
He pulled off the Post-It, turned it around, and showed it to me.
“Oh, God.” I snickered. “That would’ve been bad.”
His lips twitched. “Yeah, it would have. You’re welcome.”
I patted him on the hand, then turned to take my paper to the detective.
“I haven’t turned an essay in since I was in college,” I told them. “And even then, it was written on the computer. This form of essay I haven’t done since high school. Ninth grade literature, to be exact. My hand hurts.”
The detective in charge took it. “Thank you.”
I grinned at him. “Can I go?”
The grin was totally false but smiling never hurt anyone.
And it wouldn’t hurt me.
“Yep,” he said. “Do the cops that first questioned you have your number?”
I nodded. “That, and it’s on that paper there. It asks for a number, as well as my driver’s license number. I didn’t put my social security number because I didn’t see a reason for you to have that.”
The one that was closest to me nodded, but I could tell he would’ve said something more had I not felt a rather large, dark presence creep up to my back.
“Here’s mine.” Slate’s dark voice shivered down my spine. “We’re heading out.”
“Thanks, Slate,” the detective said.
“I’d say anytime but…” Slate left that hanging.
After offering each his hand, Slate caught me by the elbow as he said, “Your dad called and asked me to bring you to a restaurant right around the corner. Mexican. Apparently, my whole club is there, too. Which means I’ll be forced to stay, too.”
I looked up at him but didn’t try to pull away from his touch.
“You don’t like your club?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I’m more of a solitary person. When I told them I’d help them while I was in prison, I had no idea that strings were involved. I just wanted to find something to do to relieve me of the daily boredom. It’s rather monotonous in there.”
I could imagine.
The idea of not having anything to do all day every day sounded like it would really suck.
I was addicted to Netflix. Even more so, I loved eating food.
Which was why I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll sit next to you and chat your ear off. That way my family will think I’m fine, and nobody will bother you too much from both sides. Just one.”
Something crossed in Slate’s eyes, but it was gone so fast that I almost imagined that I’d even seen it to begin with.
“That sounds like I might actually owe you one once this night is through,” he muttered.
I looked at my watch.
“Actually,” I said as I looked at my watch. “It’s only two in the afternoon. Or almost two. It’s really closer to one forty-five, but I’m saying two. We won’t spend more than an hour or two there, anyway. I’m freakin’ tired. I need a nap.”
“Thought you wanted to spend some time with your brother?” he asked. “You’re only going to stay an hour?”
I thought about that for a long moment, then cursed. “Shit, you’re right.”
If I didn’t spend time with him now, I wouldn’t get time with him later.
Maybe not for another couple of months at least.
“You make sense,” I admitted. “Fuckkk, I’m tired.”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
“No sleep yesterday, paired with working all day, on top of all that excitement at the end of your shift? There’s no wonder you’re tired,” he admitted.
