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“Alright, keep your panties on,” Fenway announced, coming in the room. “I had to run to my car.”
“There’s a woman bleeding in here, and you needed to run to your car?” Quin snapped, snatching the kit out of the man’s hands, putting it on my lap, and unzipping it.
“Figured that kit has Advil at best,” Fenway said, and then there was the distinct sound of pills shaking in a bottle, making us both look over to see him jiggling an orange prescription bottle. “That headache behind your eyes, sweetheart, that is a job for 30s.”
“Where the fuck did you get Percocet?” Quin asked, snatching it out of the man’s hand, examining it.
“Don’t worry. They’re legit. I have arthritis from that time I fell down that cliff.”
“Was pushed off the cliff,” Quin corrected. But he unscrewed the cap, checked the pills, then handed me two.
“I’ll get her a drink,” Fenway offered.
“Don’t take an hour this time. Alright,” he said, dousing some gauze in a saline solution. “This is gonna suck,” he warned me just a split second before he moved in to start clearing up the blood and dirt.
Honestly, pain-wise, the migraine was trumping anything else.
Still, Quin’s hands were deft, but gentle, trying to clean me up quickly, but with as little discomfort as possible. “I think I can get away with some butterfly sutures if you want to avoid stitches.”
“I think everyone would like to avoid needles threading things into their skin,” I agreed, watching as he pulled the little package open, then peeled off the sticker backs, then pressed three separate ones to my temple. “Your lip will heal itself. It’s just going to suck to eat or drink for a few days. Do you want to get a scan?”
“Do you think I need it?”
“To tell you that you probably have a concussion, no. But if you’re worried about anything else…”
“I’m more worried about the questions they would have to ask to explain this,” I admitted, waving a hand at my face.
“Okay. Your choice,” Quin agreed, giving me a nod as Fenway came back in the room with a bottle of water, and a cup of coffee, with a straw.
“Figure you need this, but with that lip, the straw might help,” he explained, handing it to me, then untwisting the cap to the water bottle, and handing me that as well.
Was this the client Quin seemed annoyed to have to deal with? He seemed nice enough to me.
I rested the coffee between my knees, lifting the water to take the pills, praying they would kick in soon. The last time I had taken anything pain medicine related, I had been seventeen and had just had my wisdom teeth removed.
“Alright, come on. Let’s get you in my office. I am going to call Gunner in. How long after he left were you attacked?” Quin asked as he led me out of the bathroom, his hand at my lower back.
“Not long. Maybe ten minutes.”
“Maybe he could have seen this woman somewhere. He was likely looking for a man. We all were.”
“Apparently not,” I grumbled as I sat down, feeling a bit too sorry for myself.
“What was that?” Quin asked, turning back on his way toward the other side of his desk.
Creating distance.
Or, at least, that was how my brain was choosing to interpret it.
“Nothing.”
“She said Apparently not,” Fenway supplied from the chair beside mine.
“Fenway, you can wait in the reception area. Rifle through Jules’s desk. Piss her off.”
“Tempting,” Fenway said, but crossed his legs.
“Aven’s case is none of your business,” Quin told him, shooting off a text.
“Aven, darling,” Fenway said, turning to me. “I am here because I fucked a married woman of some very important people on a yacht that didn’t belong to me. And then crashed it. See? Now we can be even.”
That was, well, a clusterfuck.
Maybe that – and not in response to what happened between us – was why Quin pulled his team away. This sounded like something that needed to be handled with kid gloves, that maybe required more of their attention than my case.
Quin let out a sigh, the long-suffering kind, the kind that said Fenway had been a thorn in his ass since he left me hours before.
“The fuck do you mean she was attack…” Gunner’s voice called as he moved down the hall, then stopped in the doorway. His eyes moved over Fenway, showing clear distaste – something the whole team seemed to feel about the kind, if a bit spoiled, rich guy in the room. But then his gaze drifted to me, his shoulders slumping immediately. “Oh, fuck.”
“Gee, way to make a girl feel good about her busted face,” I said, feeling a small bit of self-consciousness. Which was ridiculous given the situation, but it was there nonetheless. It wasn’t easy to feel decent about yourself on a good hair day when surrounded by three insanely good-looking guys. So sitting here in unflattering lazy clothes with my hair a mess, and my face made almost unrecognizable, yeah, I was having issues keeping my head up.
