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“You know you’ve made this worse?” Fender asked him.
“Of course, I did,” Marco snapped, his accent sharp. “But they fucking started it.”
Then he buckled, his hand to his side.
“Marco!” Florence gasped.
I dropped with him, looking into his eyes. “You have a habit of bleeding for me,” I said softly, more in my tone and eyes that only he, my own Angel, would understand.
He gave me a weak grin, but the glint of mischief I knew well was in his eyes. “It’s me job, Harlow,” he said as firmly as the wound let him.
“He’s not the only one bleeding,” Fender said, touching his hand to my shoulder and I grimaced.
“I’ll be fine,” I told him, but still imagined a long antiseptic shower. “What can we do for Marco?”
“We need to get him to the car,” Fender said, getting under one of Marco’s arms. I took the other. “I can manage, missus,” he told me pointedly.
“I know you can,” I told him just as pointedly. “But so can I.”
Fender gave me a nod. “He told me about the last time.”
“Someone’s going to kill me for bringing him back like this again,” I quipped and, despite the situation, Fender grinned.
“Aye, missus. Someone will.”
“That someone will be me if we don’t get him to a fucking hospital now!” Florence yelled, bordering on hysteria.
Fender and I smiled at each other, and we got Marco to the car with no more incident.
Florence climbed in the back with him, and I got in the front, with Fender in the driver’s seat.
“You might want to hold on to something,” Fender warned.
I could hear Florence and Marco muttering what could have been mistaken for sweet nothings to each other as Fender took us up the mountain with the skill of a man who did it a lot.
“You’re a very good driver, Fender,” I commented dryly.
“You’ve definitely made this world your home if you’re more concerned about my driving than Marco’s belly,” he replied, just as dryly.
I smirked. “Marco has a way of surviving. And I wouldn’t say I’m worried. It was merely an observation.
As he expertly drifted around a corner, he threw me the biggest shit-eating grin I’d seen in a long time. “Who do ye think wins all God’s races for him?” He punctuated the statement with a rather dramatic gear change.
“I don’t care if it’s your job!” Florence cried at Marco in the backseat.
“I’m fine,” Marco told her. “Nothing like a knife to the gut to wake a bloke up in the middle of the night.”
“Marco!” she snapped, clearly not impressed with his flippancy.
“How many contracts did you break tonight?” I asked him. “Potentially failing your God.”
“All of them,” Marco said, his voice weak. “But I fulfilled the most important one.”
Warmth spread in me to know someone like him was so firmly in my corner. That warmth didn’t last long.
“Marco!” Florence’s cry this time was full of concern, and I looked back to see her shaking him. “He’s passed out,” she informed us, and I heard the hysteria rising in her voice again.
“Can you go any faster?” I asked Fender quietly.
