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CHAPTERONE
LUKE
“Hey, man, you can’t cut in line,” I say to the guy who just waltzed his ass in front of me. He’s wearing some fancy business clothes and is a few inches shorter and a bit leaner than me, but still, he turns and meets my glower with one of his own.
I could crush him in the palm of my hand, but he doesn’t act afraid. Nah, he just glares up at me, narrowing his eyes, like he’s looking down his nose atme.
Dark brown eyes meet my irritated stare. “You’re bleeding,” he says curtly. His voice is deep and crisp, and his forceful tone has me standing up a little taller. I haven’t been talked to like this in…well, ever.
I roll my eyes. “So what? Still can’t cut. Where you from, huh? Is this how you do it in the big city? Just cut your way through lines, take whatever you want? Where I come from, that gets you shot.”
“Shocker. I assume missing teeth and banjos are involved too,” he mutters, still eyeing my forehead. I swipe at it and see red smeared on my hand.
“Oh. Damn.”
“I told you so,” the man says and then sighs heavily, moving out of line and gesturing for me to follow him. Well, the joke’s on him. I’m getting my damn coffee first.
Sucker.
I move to the counter and smile widely at the barista behind the register. She looks slightly horrified. Whatever. Getting my coffee is serious business. I don’t mess around with this shit. I’d crawl in here with my legs blown off to get some of this sugary goodness.
“I’ll have a large white mocha, extra whipped cream, with sprinkles on top. The red ones.Please,” I tack on.
“You’re….” She motions to my head, and I sigh.
“Yeah, I know. Everyone keeps talking about it, but I want to get my drink before I handle it. Do you mind? I’ve been craving this shit fordays.Days.”
She swallows, eyeing the bloody mess on my head, and then nods. She takes my order, and I swipe my card. When that’s done, I cross the small coffee shop toward the clearly annoyed man waiting for me near the napkins and straws. Hey, it’s not my fault he lost his place in line. He has a terrible sense of priorities.
“What are you gonna do, patch me up? You a doctor?” I ask as he hands me a wad of napkins. I press it to my forehead and stare down at him. He’s so serious-looking, with dark brown hair parted and combed neatly to the side. He sort of reminds me of that actor Nicholas Hoult from theX-Menmovies with his long lashes, faint stubble, and full lips. He’s a good-looking dude, in an uptight sort of way. His black-framed glasses are tucked into the pocket of his nicely pressed button-down shirt, and I resist the urge to touch the fabric. It looks soft.
“As a matter of fact, Iama doctor. And speaking with authority, you should really go to the urgent care clinic and have this stitched up,” he says, peeling the wad of napkins from my forehead and peeking at the wound. “How did this happen?”
I run a hand along my jaw. “Uh, dunno.”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t know?”
“Nah. I mean, I have an idea, but I’m not sure.”
“How can you not be sure?” the man asks, arching a stern eyebrow at me. Damn, he looks like Whit when he does that. Maybe they’re related. If they are, they probably scowl at one another at family gatherings. I can only imagine what that Thanksgiving would be like.
I shrug. “This happens to me often. Just part of the job.”
“It happens often…” He sighs. “Well, you can’t just walk around with blood dripping down your face. This isn’t a horror film. It’s not okay. This is civilization.”
I eyeball this guy and then lean toward him. “You gonna fix me up, Doc? Make me all respectable?”
He huffs and looks away from me. “This is so my luck,” he mutters, and then those dark eyes meet mine again. “Before we continue this conversation, tell me, are you in the mafia?”
My head snaps back, and my eyebrows rise. “Why the fuck would I be in the mafia?”
He stares at me, deadpan. “You have a crazed look about you, and I don’t want to be indebted to criminals.”
I snort. “Indebted to criminals? What the hell are you even talking about?”
“We’ve all seen the TV shows. I help you now and then the next thing I know, you’ll show up on my doorstep with a gunshot wound, and I’ll have to perform emergency surgery on my kitchen table before you bleed out. It never ends well for the doctor. I’m not cut out for a life of crime.”
“Nah,” I mutter. “I know gun safety. Now, a knife wound…that’s more probable. The ones I have are sharp as fuck. Almost sliced my finger off last week. It was gnarly and scary as hell. Almost pissed myself.”
