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“To my car,” I reply.
“Why?” His voice is deep and gravelly, clearly tired and in pain.
“I can’t put you behind the wheel ofyourcar. Do you have a wife or someone at home who can take care of you? You look like shit.”
He manages a small chuckle. “No wife. Nobody.”
Shit.
“Fine,” I reply with a grunt as we reach my car. It’s an old Ford pickup that Gladys lets me borrow since she never drives anywhere. Apparently, it was her husband’s before he passed. The passenger door creaks as I open it for Adam. Without another word, he slides into the seat, resting his head against the headrest.
As I climb into the driver’s seat, he squints his eyes and turns toward me. “Where the hell are you taking me?”
“Back to my apartment,” I reply without looking at him.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t like you very much either, but what choice do I have?” I shrug as I start the truck. It takes a few turns before it finally revs up.
Finally, I look at him. “I can’t put you in an Uber like that. And if I take you home, who’s going to help you bandage up that gross cut on your cheek? Or clean up that mess of blood all over your face?”
His brow is furrowed as he stares at me, clearly struggling with an argument for that.
I let out a tired sigh. “Listen, this is partly my fault. And I feel bad that you had to find out about your dad like this. So just promise you won’t rape and/or murder me at my apartment, and I’ll make sure you don’t die.”
After a disgruntled sigh, he nods. “Fine.”
Eight
Adam
“You live in a Laundromat?”
“I liveabovea Laundromat,” she replies as she unlocks the front door and ushers me in. This would be the strangest part of my day if not for that moment back there when my father had someone hold me down while he broke my nose.
I can only assume it’s broken by the way it keeps bleeding and has gone completely numb. In the truck, Sage tore off her shirt and handed it to me to stop the bleeding. Now she’s prancing around in a bra, and I’m doing my very best to keep my eyes off of the tattoos scattered around her torso and chest.
My eye being swollen shut helps.
I don’t object as she pulls me through the dark and empty Laundromat. There’s a door in the back that she opens and pushes me through. Then we’re walking up some cement stairs when my ears are assaulted by a sound that feels like nails being driven into my already pounding head.
“Roscoe, hush!” she whisper-yells as she unlocks the door of her apartment.
As we enter, she scoops up the small dog, but he doesn’t stop his incessant yipping. When I try to pet the tiny demon, he snaps at my hand.
“Jesus,” I say with a wince.
“That’s not a good sign,” she says with a judgmental glare, carrying him away from me. As if dogs can sense evil, and I’ve just failed the test.
“In my defense, I’m bleeding profusely and I smell like a dirty sex club.”
She mumbles something as she walks away, and I realize I should probably feel bad for insulting her club, but I’m too irritated to care at the moment. The pleasantries and chemistry from that morning we met are long gone, and at this point, I’ve lost the energy to care. If I wasn’t covered in blood, I’d turn around and order a ride home.
“Come in here,” she barks out the command, and I follow her to the kitchen. If you could call it that.
The apartment is a studio, long and narrow. A large velvet green couch covered with pillows and blankets faces a wall full of old windows overlooking the city. Not a bad view, actually.
To my left is a kitchenspacewith one small counter, a mini-fridge, and a sink. No oven. No range. She has a tiny microwave next to the coffeepot, leaving her about ten inches of usable counter space.
