Page 42 of Jameson’s Salvation

Not wanting Kennedy’s hands on Weston for any longer than necessary, Jameson told them to go into the conference room and he went to the bathroom to wash his hands. The med kit was in the other room and the chairs were leather. It would be easier to clean up blood should any drip when Jameson was sewing Weston up.

Once again, Weston was seated and Kennedy was tending to his arm when Jameson entered the room. Jameson pulled out the med kit and rooted around for what he needed. Once he had everything laid out, he put on a pair of surgical gloves and turned to Kennedy.

“I take it you’re okay with blood.”

“Not fond of seeing someone I know bleed, but otherwise yes.”

“Go wash up and put on a pair of gloves.” Kennedy didn’t move but her brow did raise and her lips flattened. “If you wouldn’t mind, I could use your help,” he added and she still hadn’t budged. “Please.”

Kennedy waited for Weston to take over holding the washcloth on his arm and she left the room.

“Knew you had it bad, but goddamn.”

“You sure you wanna do this right before I’m gonna stitch you up?”

“Might have to start calling you a house kitten. You and Nix both seem to have traded your balls for—”

“Unless you want me to make you cry like a bitch in front of Kennedy, I wouldn’t finish that statement.”

Weston tried but failed to hold back his shit-eating grin. “Right. Happy for you.”

“Happy about what?” Kennedy asked, walking into the room with her hands in front of her, bent up at the elbows like a doctor on one of those TV dramas does when they walked into a surgical suite.

“Nothing, babe. You’re gonna need some gloves, too.”

Kennedy easily put on the two-sizes-too-big latex gloves and waited for Jameson’s next instruction.

He explained what he needed her to do and got to work. Twenty minutes later, Weston had thirteen stitches and Jameson was cleaning up the mess when Kennedy asked, “What happened anyway?”

“Asshole wasn’t too happy when I handed him the subpoena. Didn’t think much about it, the guy’s being disposed in a civil case. Apparently, he’s not willing to give testimony and was pissed we’d tracked him down. It was sloppy on my part; I should’ve been ready for anything. But goddamn, the man was quick on the draw and caught me on the arm before I could stop him.”

Kennedy’s gaze was swinging back and forth between the two men and she was frowning.

“I thought you guys were PIs.”

“We are, among other things,” Weston started, and Jameson really wished his friend would keep his trap shut. Kennedy already looked freaked; he didn’t want her more worried about his job. “In this case, our client’s an attorney and hired us to track the guy down and serve him. Holden and Chasin are working a bond skip right now and are in West Virginia hunting. Nixon left this morning for Pennsylvania to haul a fugitive back to Maryland.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Kennedy muttered.

“It’s really not. It’s mostly boring and the majority of our work is done in the office,” Jameson said.

“Really?” Kennedy tipped her head to the bloody shirt still on the table then over at the angry red welt on Weston’s bicep before looking back at him with raised eyebrows.

“Most of the time it’s not.”

“You sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” she asked Weston. “Do you need antibiotics or something?”

“Nope. Got bags of them at home. ‘Preciate it though.”

“You should come home with me and Jameson, you need to put that arm up and eat something.”

Jameson froze and sheer panic set in.

Home.

He didn’t have a home, hadn’t for a long time. He’d been given housing when he was in the Navy, then he’d rented crash pads, and now he was staying at a buddy’s house—but it was not his home. He hadn’t had one of those since before his dad had walked out and fucked his mom over. After his dad left, Jameson had lived in hell, the happy home he’d known was gone.

“Kennedy, darlin’,” Weston started. “Can you do me a favor and run up to my office? There’s a gym bag up there and if you open it there should be a clean tee.”