I ignored him as I turned, only to narrowly miss slamming into Matthews. I stopped short and kept my balance, but large hands gripped my hips from behind anyway.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Matthews rushed out before I could ask what the hell had taken him so long. He scanned me, his eyes going wide when he reached my hair.
Wow, way to also be a dick. Sorry my hair isn’t perfect after getting shot at.
His cursing chant grew more flustered as he slowly rotated around and around like a worthless old hot dog in the convenience store warmer.
It was making me dizzy, which didn’t help with my nausea.
He finally stopped before opening his mouth. I wasn’t sure if he was going to ask if I was okay, explain where he’d been, or maybe even lie about it. He must not have known either because an unintelligible croak was all that came out.
I didn’t give him the chance to try again before saying, “Notebook.”
Miracle of miracles, he actually did as I said instead of trying to use his phone.
I listed off everything I could remember about the dark sedan, including the partial license plate number. “I don’t have a lot of hope that’ll give us much since either the plates are hot or the whole car is. And my guess is it’ll be a lot hotter by the time we locate it. I hope their torching skills are as bad as their aim.”
“Their aim’s clearly not that bad,” Matthews said as Rhys bit out some low curses behind me.
I didn’t need their concern. “Stay here.”
Matthews listened.
Rhys did not.
I only made it a handful of steps before his large hand wrapped around my upper arm. “Just hold still. You were fuckin’ shot.”
“I wasn’t,” I said. Though when I swiped my burning forehead, I pulled my hand away to see it was smeared with a lot more blood than the flecks on his cheek.
That’s inconvenient.
I took the wadded-up fabric he shoved at my head and used it to wipe the blood before it could drip down into my eye.
Sirens cut through the commotion, and more of the looky-loos took that as a sign they should haul ass. They didn’t make it far since the Rye bouncers were doing their best to keep everyone contained, but the unintentional crowd dispersing allowed me to confirm my first assessment had been accurate.
No one was bleeding.
Well, except me.
With back-up close and no emergency assistance needed, I stayed halfway between the group and the corner where Matthews was preserving the scene. I split my focus between both, not really trusting either.
Taking advantage of my stillness, Rhys crowded closer. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“You got shot in the fuckin’ head. What the hell were you thinkin’ rolling on top of me like that?”
“That I was doing my damn job.”
“Sorry, did I miss where that makes you fuckin’ bulletproof? Because I know you aren’t wearing Kevlar under that suit, and even if you were, it wouldn’t do a shit-ton of good when you were shot in the motherfuckin’ head.”
“I told you, I wasn’t. I know what that feels like, and this isn’t it.
I’d assumed the assertion that I hadn’t been shot would get him to back off, but it didn’t. His focus stayed locked on me as he shoved the fabric at my forehead again.
Belatedly, I realized that it was his balled-up flannel. It had looked worn and soft while he’d been wearing it, but as it rubbed against my skin, I discovered it was made of sandpaper. Or maybe that was the bits of whatever I could feel inside my wound.
“Shit,” he muttered, picking up on the discomfort before I could tell him to knock it off. He stopped wiping and just used it to put pressure on the cut, but I took the bundle and did it myself, leaving one of my eyes with a clear view of his anger.
