“Forty-five minutes or so. There’s something I need to tell you before you get too stoned.”
“What’s that? I’m being released tomorrow? You’ve arranged a spa day for me?” She smiles slightly, eyes closed.
Fuck. I’m no good at being sensitive, but after what she’s just told me, it seems I don’t need to be. “Er, your dad is dead.”
“WHAT?”
OK, maybe I should have softened it. “The new guy, Hector, said it happened at your brother’s engagement party. That’s where the big battle was.”
“My dad was killed? Is Cosmo OK?”
“Yeah, according to Hector.”
“Wait—the whole coup took place at Cos’s motherfucking party?” She flops back. “Fuck my life. I missed it all.”
“You don’t seem very bummed about your father.”
“I’m not. Fuck that motherfucker.”
Fair enough.
“I’ve also got some intel on your English friend,” I tell her. “It’s a real big news day for you.”
“London? What have you heard?”
Fuck, why does it piss me off that she’s so eager to hear about him.
“He’s having a fine old time in solitary. One of the Diggers was working down there yesterday, and London was laughing and singing like a crazy-man.”
She smiles softly to herself. “Sounds about right.”
Gah.
“Anyway, you’re fucking lucky not to be more injured. That was the most reckless, idiotic thing I’ve ever seen.” I hesitate for a heartbeat, then gently brush a stray, matted lock of blonde hair away from the cut on her forehead.
For a while we both just stay silent in the gloom and the heat. Eventually she cracks a lid again. “I think the mushrooms are kicking in, I feel woozy, but still fucking hurt. When is the pain going to stop?”
“You’ll be up and working in forty-eight hours. Just try not to get in any more trouble until your bruises clear up, OK?”
“It’s not like I go looking to get beat up.”
“Are you sure about that?” I ask her, grinning when she gives me the middle finger.
“You rest. I’ll be next door. No one will disturb you.”
Without opening her eyes, she gives a small smile, then winces. “Thanks, Taliesin.”
I know I should stick with my tough Digger persona, but it’s getting harder and harder around this delicate girl.
Fuck. As her breathing evens out into the slow, heavy rhythm of sleep, I smooth the hair from her face.
The cell is silent, but my head won’t shut the fuck up.
It’s telling me how fragile she looks under that moth-eaten sheet—how heartbreakingly vulnerable.
Every time I look at her, I feel the “Boss” part of me warring with a stronger urge to protect her over everyone and everything else.
The Diggers can all go to hell.
