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I squeeze her again. “They do now.”
5
CADE
Once we leavethe hospital and she’s given me her address, she’s quiet.
I mean, I’m a fucking stranger who waded into her life with bullshit and lies. A stranger who she’s only letting in because her people have screwed her over… So, I don’t blame her for the quiet time and just leave her alone to come to terms with how differently things could have been if I hadn’t gone over the speed limit to get her to the ER.
It’s a lesson she needs to remember. A lesson that I’m relieved I was there to help teach because, fuck, the idea of her getting hurt over something I helped orchestrate…?
After Vinny?
Shaking my head at my thoughts, I drive her home, grateful that I got the car detailed while she was being treated because no one needs to come face-to-face with yesterday’s vomit.
During the journey, Belle proves she has no street smarts, either that or she’s too sick to care because she doesn’t seem to realize that she could be putting herself in danger... Maybe her instincts tell her that I’m safe?
Her instincts are wrong.
I’m here to topple her world upside down, and fuck, if that’s not making me feel like a real piece of shit.
“I hate my job,” I mutter under my breath, too quiet for her to hear anyway, but especially inaudible with the radio on low.
My hands grip the steering wheel, making my knuckles ache with the tension. It doesn’t help. Pain never does—I learned that the hard way with Vinny. Shot up forty pounds of pure muscle when I started working out to take my mind off shit.
Got me laid, but it didn’t heal my fucking soul or ease my grief.
Finally, we make it back to her place, and that’s when I realize she was sleeping all along.
Cursing under my breath, I get out and, feeling awkward as hell, go through her purse for her keys. Picking through the collection of pom poms, a pepper spray can on a key ring, and a rape whistle—all pink—I find the one for the front entrance, then I haul her into my arms and carefully carry her to the door.
No one spots us, so no one questions what I’m doing with their unconscious neighbor—I’m almost relieved about that. This doesnotlook good from the outside nosing in.
It takes some juggling to find the key to her apartment, but I get her through the door with Belle only mumbling about room service. The critique on my skills as a porter/server makes me grin as I wend a path through her chic living room—definitely bought with Daddy’s dough—and into the bedroom.
That’s when my tone shifts. “Belle?” I don’t let her fall back asleep once her eyes open into slithers.
“What?” she mumbles.
“You need to shower and change.”
Her eyes open wider. Then, she whispers, sounding horrified and, to be honest, faintly high, “Do I stink?”
My lips curve but I give her the truth, hoping vanity will keep her awake. “You don’t smell fresh.”
It works, but her reaction is so immediate that I almost drop the hold I have on her, from her being practically in a coma in my arms to full on drama queen—Jesus, it’s a wonder she doesn’t give me whiplash.
“I STINK,” she shrieks, “and you’re cute and oh, my God, I don’t always smell of vomit,” she promises.
Her legs are shaky, a lesson she learns when she tries to toe out of her sweats, seeming not to care that I’m standing right in front of her when she starts undressing.
Propping her up, I drawl, “Belle, calm down. No one smells or looks good when they just had their stomach pumped.”
Then, of course, I’m reminded that in the history of humanity, telling a woman to calm down never works…
“Why do you have to be so pretty?” Her eyes are big and wide as she stares at me.
I hide a grin. “I mean, it takes one to know one?”
