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I didn’t walk away unscathed from the grand finale that brought the job to an end. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t gone racing back to Temecula. My intel from last week tells me Ophelia is doing fine. I didn’t want to arrive at the Fainting Goat Ranch with forty-eight fresh stitches and not be able to put my hands all over her. Plus, I needed to make sure Sweetness was okay because even though we fling a lot of bullshit at each other, she is a friend of Ophelia’s, and I count her as my friend too. Someone needed to look after the big guy and make sure he got some rest, and they were both eating because Hazard had to leave.
We are both sitting in silent protest as I wait for her to think more about her current condition.
In Phoenix’s words, “It’s only a scratch”—in Slade’s eyes—it was life or death. I expected nothing less of the man to be acting sentry over Phoenix. I would have been the same with Ophelia.
But here I am—the one she wants to convert to the dark side behind Slade’s back.
Again. Not gonna happen.
Phoenix throws the bed coverings back and swings her legs over the opposite side to where I am. She’s on her feet, standing in only her T-shirt and black knickers when her back bows as she curls forward.
“Whoa there, Sweetness.” I jump up off the bed. “You are not ready to get out of this bed?” I reprimand her, stating the obvious, but give her space to come to the same conclusion.
I don’t need to see her face to know she’s biting her lip, holding in the telltale hiss of pain.
Bullet wounds hurt like a bitch for longer than people would think. Been there, done that, and got a couple of well-placed scars myself.
Itshouldbe enough of a deterrent to continue and get her ass back into bed, but “Stubborn” is her middle name. If you tell her she shouldn’t, she will.
“Don’t follow or touch me.” She straightens before walking purposely toward the door.
I start the inner monologue countdown.
And then she’s swaying, arms out like she’s a newborn foul walking a tight rope.
“Phoenix, can’t you do as you’re told just for once?” I mutter, irritated by this stubborn woman’s need to prove that she’s badass to everyone who crosses her path.
Aanndthen she’s on the ground in an awkward spray of limbs and groans.
I make it double-time around the bed, crouching down gingerly, the pull of my own stitches reminding me to be careful.
Phoenix rolls from her front over to her back, resting on her elbows, murmuring a variety of curse words under her breath.
And then I see blood seeping through her T-shirt.
Double fuck!
“Stay still while I check the damage,” I command her because I’m no longer playing Mr. Nice Guy.
I slide her T-shirt up without waiting for permission, revealing the white bandage, which is soaking up the red. “Jesus, Sweetness… why the hell do you have to be so freaking stubborn? Now, look what you’ve done.” I am angry at her for not taking care of herself. “You’ve torn your stitches in front. I need to check the exit wound area.” Without me spelling it out for her, she moves enough without any sassy ‘tude, so I can gently inspect the area. “You’ve not torn anything there.” I carefully pull her T-shirt back down. The wound will be smarting like a thousand bee stings.
I rest my hands on my thighs, a disgruntled look on my face, which is currently sparring with her red-faced glare. My stitched knees are ringing the dinner bell, but I don’t move. I just glare. “What? Has the cat got your tongue?”
She matches my glare and ups it with a lofty brow, making my lips twitch because this epic fail of a getaway must be stomping all over her pride.
Phoenix knows she needs a hand getting up, and she is praying I don’t ask her if she would like one.
“Okay, you are gonna give me the silent treatment. Well, missy, you just earned yourself more time with Doc Fernando and more time off work.” Still no sassy ‘tude. I prod a little more. “Come on, Phoenix. Are you really this desperate to get away from the much better-looking version of Alan Ritchson? The man-mountainclearlywants you sharing his cave. Give him some slack wouldya? Big man—”
Then an umbrella of man-mountain with cropped brown hair and blue eyes looms over the both of us, his big hands on his powerful bent thighs, looking mighty pissy.
Well, look at that. Man-mountain is awake.
“What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On. Firebird?” Sweetness has gone and made the big guy use Firebird, which I’ve found he utilizes when he feels a strong emotion toward Phoenix. Not necessarily a good one.
Prince Charming scoops Phoenix up, cradling her in his arms, ignoring her protests, and places her gently back on the bed. Her hiss of pain softened his beastly scowl into a look of tenderness.
I bet Slade’s been listening in for a while, just waiting to see what Phoenix tries, knowing she must learn for herself that getting shot needs to be taken seriously. When a bullet blazes a fiery trail in and out of the body, no matter what, you need some horizontal time-out.
