“No idea, girl,” Layla said with a forced smile. “Maybe you were just enjoying some of that R and R we’ve been talking about. Maybe you just wanted a break from all this crap, so your subconscious kept you under.”
I arched my brows. That right there was a major stretch.
Her shoulders slumped at my expression. “We don’t know.”
Brady snorted. “There’s a whole lotta that going on. We don’t know shit about shit.”
Layla smirked bitterly. “At least we know that.”
Griffin’s gaze trailed my fingers as I gently pressed against the gown that covered my chest. “So what are the wounds looking like?”
Layla bounced in her seat as if she’d just remembered something, starting to behave like her usual self despite the grimace that followed the movement. I, however, doubted I’d be in the mood to so much as try bouncing anywhere for ages. My body felt like it’d gone several rounds with an angry, vengefulrealninja, not any of us and our wannabe skills.
“Oh my God! Brade tried to help give me a sponge bath.” She snorted. “Can you believe the bozo? Asponge bath.” She glanced at him, a modest dose of her usual mischief dancing across her face. “Admit it. I’m a total hottie. You’ve always known it. It was your chance to grope my fine-ass titties and you went for it.”
Griffin, Hunt, and I glanced between the twins, waiting for their inevitable reactions.
As one, their faces screwed up into mutual disgust, making their similar features appear identical.
Brady’s nose scrunched up into an accordion of lines. “Ew, Lay. Just …ew. Do you everthinkbefore you speak? Seriously, man! That went too far.”
Layla shuddered. “It totally did. My bad, dude.” She didn’t bother promising she’d start thinking before she spoke; we all knew there was no point. Layla was Layla, and Layla would do what Layla did, no matter how crass or twisted. I was oddly comforted by the fact that some things never changed, even if most other aspects of our lives were so different they bordered on unrecognizable.
When Brady and Layla seemed like they’d be continuing the grossed-out spiel for a while, I prompted, “So, our wounds?”
Hunt was usually as agile as an alley cat. Now he inched toward the edge of his seat before aiding himself up with his arms. But then he stood without the aid of the walking stick, steady on his feet, and lifted the top of his scrubs. Unlike me, his sculpted chest was free of gauze. The skin was pink in five round, puffy spots. If I hadn’t known better, I’d say they looked like superficial cigar burns.
“Will they heal more?” I asked.
He shrugged, lowering his shirt. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
Brady scooted forward across the mattress, his feet dropping to the floor. Like the others, he wore scrubs. Presumably, the t-shirt he’d worn to the pep rally was also riddled with holes, his pants at the very least blood-spattered.
When he lifted his shirt, I gasped. Even Layla, who always had something to say—especially when no one wanted to hear it—stared at him, mouth agape.
In addition to the scar from the rebar, five angry welts dotted his muscled chest. They looked like swollen mosquito bites. And the rebar scar? Last time I’d seen it, the flesh had been a sad, shiny, puckered pink, the size of a lemon. Now? It was the size of a jawbreaker.
“How’s that possible?” Layla whispered, when Layla never whispered.
He smirked. “What do you think? We’re immortals, Lay.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” I said. Though, why wouldn’t I? If we couldn’t actually die, whatdidthat make us?
And why was I the last to come back?
As if following my train of thought, Layla offered, “My scars look about like Hunt’s. I’d show you, but then I’d be flashing my titties, and I don’t wanna tempt my gross and pervy brother.”
Brady huffed in exasperation, running a hand through dark blond hair that was currently styled with a fade that crested into a two-inch mohawk. Post resurrection number two, his mohawk sagged. “Oh for fuck’s sake. You’re the one who’s gross and pervy! You go too far. Waaaaaay too far. You can’t say that kind of shit! Not even as a joke. You’ve gotta stop!”
But Layla’s eyes were sparkling, telling me she was enjoying herself, despite the shitshow we were currently starring in. She thrived on doing precisely what she wasn’t supposed to. Brady telling her “can’t” was her version of catnip. The girl got off on dancing the cha-cha along the line that demarcated the taboo.
“I’ve gotta get under the bandages to look,” I said, more to myself than them. “See if I, you know, healed as well as you guys did. If I took that much longer than all of you to revive, who knows … At least my leg healed.”
Layla grinned a shit-eating smile. “Sure. Flash them titties, Joss. I’m sure Griff won’t mind.”
My eyes widened until they bulged as I did my best to shoot death rays at her. “LAY-la!” I scolded harshly. Had the girl lost her ever-loving damn mind? Maybe dying had rattled some screws loose. Even for her, this was all a bit much. We’d always been extremely careful not to blur the lines of friendship—let alone incest, for that matter. Girl was being nuttier than a freaking squirrel.
Brady was shaking his head. “I swear Mom or Dad dropped you smack on your head when you were a baby. The shit that comes out of your mouth …”
