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I sag in relief, my head spinning. “I dunno. Maybe. I’ll check the first-aid kit in the bathroom.”
r /> At least I keep it well stocked. Old habits, plus a life in the gang and living with Seb means injuries are par for the course. You need to keep that shit handy.
“Know what, I’ll go look for it,” she says, her hand warm on my lower back. “You sit down. You’re shaking. And take off your T-shirt.”
Am I? I’m cold, I know that much, even colder when I pull off my ruined T-shirt and let it drop to the floor.
Then again the apartment is like a meat locker. I’m freezing my balls off. I should turn the heat on. I should check the fridge for food. I should check that Seb hasn’t broken everything.
Should, should, should. I should show Gigi the door. I should walk away next time I see her or her friend.
But I don’t.
I sit on the chair, my chest to the back, and listen to her rummaging in my dingy little bathroom, trying not to think how comforting the sound is—someone who isn’t crazy high on drugs moving nearby, doing something nice for me—trying not to think at all.
My eyes are closing, and I snap them wide open again. I shouldn’t feel so… so safe with her around. There’s nothing safe about her. She’s my drug, and I’m dying to have her again.
Still. She won’t attack me with a knife, won’t steal my shit. Her hands are soft and gentle, and her smile is real.
I fold my arms over the back of the chair and drop my forehead on them. Sleep is rolling over me in a slow, heavy wave, no matter how I fight it. I’m just so fucking tired.
Of everything. Of fighting, time after time. Of doing all I can, only to find it wasn’t good enough. That good things end, every single time, just as I start to relax, thinking life has stopped toying with me, stopped fucking me over just for shits and giggles.
I snort softly against my forearms. As if. Guess fate singled me out for special treatment. Special kick-Jarett-while-he’s-down offer, buy one, get two.
Kick the bad, selfish guy in the nuts, until he learns his lesson. Only what that lesson is, I honestly have no fucking idea.
“Found it,” she says from behind me, jolting me, and ow, my back. “You’ve got everything imaginable in it. It’s kinda crazy. Our first-aid kit at home is practically empty.”
“You should stock up,” I mutter, lifting my head.
I’m not sleepy anymore. My skin buzzes, my pulse leaps under my skin, and the blood rushes in my ears. My blood heats, and my muscles tense.
She only has to come near me, and my whole body tenses with arousal. It’s beyond my control, and it’s fucked up.
It has to stop.
Her fingertips brush over my back, slide down my spine, and I bite back a curse—not pain, it’s not pain but pleasure, and it’s turning me inside out.
Then she sprays antiseptic over the wound, and goddammit, that burns like hell.
“Fuck,” I hiss, and then clench my jaw to keep from doing anything embarrassing like moan in pain.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and I don’t get why.
“Not your fault,” I manage, breathing carefully, waiting for the fire to go out.
“I don’t know about that.” Light touches as she applies the butterfly bandages, closing the cut. Her fingers tremble a little, and every brush against my skin shoots straight to my dick. “When I asked you to look after her, I didn’t mean this. Didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
“Then what did you mean?” I ask, my voice sharper than I’d intended, exhaustion and frustration making me impatient and grumpy.
“What do you think I meant?” Her fingers withdraw, and I wanna hit something so fucking bad. “I asked you to do this.” A scratching noise as she crumples the packaging of the bandages.
“You did.”
“Right.” A tremor in her voice. “And I assume you want your payment now.”
With a grunt, I push to my feet, pissed at life, and at myself. “If you didn’t want this, you shouldn’t have made the deal. I’m your hired muscle now, right? Your friend’s bodyguard.”
