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Though he takes his time doing it, shining that light on me like he not only wants to look at my eyeballs, but illuminate every remaining brain cell in my head. Because Rook is Rook, and even when he's caring for you — which on its own is probably a strange enough thought to give me a concussion — he's still Rook. Still an asshole.
"But you're clear."
"Great. Help me stand. And lend me your bike, too. And a gun."
"Let me correct myself: you're clear of a concussion… for now. If you try anything stupid or ask me again to lend you any of my things, you will find your mental state irrevocably altered."
"Concussions aren't permanent, you ass," I retort.
"They are when you hit as hard as I do."
In my state, I realize that I'm in no condition to test him, even if the look on his face is one that's just begging to be punched. Besides, I've got bigger things to worry about, and as my senses come back, crippling pain comes back with it; Dani's gone. Gone for good.
"She was special," I murmur.
"Eliza's more special."
"Oh, fuck off."
"It's a reflex."
"To be the world's biggest asshole?"
"To talk up the woman I love," Rook says. "But go ahead, continue wallowing in your well-deserved self-loathing. Clearly, you had something beautiful, and you fucked it up. I know a little about Smokey's sister — she's successful, athletic, though not the smartest woman out there, considering she isn't named Eliza and she also somehow chose you as her partner, but she still seems like a catch — and I know it's got to be eating you up inside to have completely ruined what you had with her. So let it out while I get a pot of coffee started."
"I should kill you."
"Should and being capable of something are two completely different things, Striker. You're welcome to try, but you'll have to live with the consequences of failure — which is me killing you. Though at least you'd get to escape the pain that I'm sure is eating your heart alive. You going to want any of this coffee?"
Briefly, I consider standing up and trying it. Rook would kill me in the state I'm in, but he's right — at least it's an out.
Then I nod my head, even though the action makes my brain feel like it's jumping around inside my skull.
"Yeah. Make me a cup."
He pours one for himself and one for me. Then he brings it to me and pulls up a chair opposite mine.
"What happened?"
"You asking to gloat over the fact I wound up unconscious on the shop floor, or you genuinely care?"
"Both."
"I appreciate the honesty."
"I'm nothing if not honest."
I chuckle, take a sip of coffee, feel the caffeine ripple through my body and jolt my groggy system back to life. "Fuck, that's good."
"The only reason they keep me around. Of course, it's not just that I know how to make a mean cup — this stuff's French press, by the way, because I'll be fucking damned if I drink automatic drip shit, since those machines don't heat the water up to the right temperature for any sort of meaningful extraction — but I have to give some credit to the beans as well. They are imported from Chiapas, Mexico. Bright acidity, light toastiness, and a good, fruity flavor. A chef friend of mine who lives up north recommended them to me. She knows her shit."
Taking another sip, I nod. "She does."
It's damn fine coffee, perfectly roasty, just the right amount of darkness, and yet a gentle acidity that wakes me up.
"Eliza's been teaching me about this thing. It's called empathy. I can tell you're hurting right now. You're worried you've lost Dani for good. That she's going into a danger that you can't get her out of. That she's going to be surrounded by ruthless Mafia hitmen who are going to rip her limb from limb and send the pieces to you in the mail, bit by bit, until your front porch is filled with packages of body parts, like her eyes, her ears, her fingers, her lips..."
"Rook, that isn't fucking empathy. You're just trying to torture me."
