Page 23 of Fool Moon First Aid

I overhear Officer Firefly on his radio, his voice an inaudible murmur. “Yeah, see you in five.”

“Who’s coming in five?” My curiosity piqued, I roll the window down farther, sticking my head out for a better view. “Who?”

“Did you or did you not make a grand escape from Mystic Med earlier?” he asks, his eyes betraying his exhaustion beneath the brim of his hat.

“Wasn’t me,” I lie again, my voice dripping with mock shock.

“Cut the act, Ava.” Eloise leans over me, her finger poised over the window button. “Who did you call?”

“Her doctor,” he replies, his tone nonchalant as he tips his hat at us. “Stay put, ladies.”

“What do you think? Is he bluffing?” I turn to Eloise, considering our chances of a high-speed getaway. “I’ve got a ticking clock on my freedom here.” Every part of me yearns for the chase. What is wrong with me?

“You?” Eloise slumps back in her seat, a pout on her lips. “Thanks to him, I’m not getting any tonight, and that makes me one unhappy lady.” She sticks her tongue out at Mutton Chops in a childish display of defiance.

“You’re really channeling your inner five-year-old,” I chide her, shifting in my seat, only to wince as pain lances through my ribs. “Seriously, I need that food. Commandeer it from him.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” she squeaks. “After his little charade?”

“He’s literally holding my dinner hostage.”

“Then you get it,” she tells me.

Challenge accepted. “Fine.”

“Fine,” she echoes, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

This might be worst fight we have ever had. I wrench the door open, my face burning with determination. Awkwardly, I balance on my good leg and curse under my breath as I maneuver the other encased in its cumbersome red cast.

“Ava, stop being ridiculous,” Eloise says, exiting the car with a roll of her eyes. “I’ll get it.”

“Hold up!” I stop her as another car rolls into the now bustling parking lot, this one just curious about the cop cars. Well I did want them to chase me. I fix my gaze on Lance. “Hey, Mutton Chops!” He looks startled when I call out. “Yeah, you! Hand over the food. I’m not just hangry—I’m in agony here!”

“Yeah,” Eloise says, her voice a perfect blend of amusement and a warning that’s not quite serious. “You won’t like her when she’s hangry.”

Lance, leaning against the wall with the casual grace of a panther, rolls his eyes, but then, in an act of pure theatrics, he jiggles the takeout bag enticingly. My stomach growls, a clear sign of my desperate need for sustenance. He’s unwittingly waving a red flag at a bull, and I’m seeing red.

I let out a low, involuntary growl, fed up with this culinary standoff. I came on this wild excursion for one thing only—food. Otherwise, I would have stayed at Eloise’s apartment under a pile of blankets.

Just as my patience wears thin, a sleek black car pulls up, cutting through the tension like a knife. Ethan steps out, his aura dark and stormy, his anger palpable, even from a distance. He’s the epitome of a furious wolf, yet his rage seems misplaced because, honestly, I’m the victim here.

I spare Ethan a brief, wary glance. His brows are knitted in a frown, and his jaw is set in a line tight enough to snap, but my rumbling stomach reminds me he’s not my concern right now. My gaze snaps back to Lance, who’s now as still as a statue, caught in Ethan’s intense glare. The worst part? He’s still holding my food hostage.

“Yo!” I snap, my frustration boiling over. My vocabulary has taken a hit, thanks to this hunger strike. “Mutton Chops! Yes, you!” Lance’s nose twitches, a clear sign of confusion, and his Adam’s apple bobs like he’s struggling with words, but his gaze remains stubbornly locked with Ethan’s.

I decide to hobble over myself. Each step is a battle, my crutches feeling more like a clumsy dance partner than a support, probably because they are Eloise’s and not adjusted to my height. I’m aiming for Lance but looking more like a pirate with a peg leg.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ethan plants himself in front of me, a towering obstacle.

Big mistake, wolf-man. “Get out of my way,” I demand, channeling every ounce of anger I have. I swing my crutch at Ethan’s shin, hoping for some reaction, but he’s immovable and unfazed by my attack. In my mind, he was supposed to topple over in defeat.

He looks down at his shin, then back up at me with a raised eyebrow. “I repeat, what do you think you’re doing, tempest?”

“Food,” I grunt out, my patience wearing thinner by the second.

Ethan’s nostrils flare—probably smelling my desperation and annoyance. In one smooth motion, he reaches back, snatches the bag from Lance, and hands it to me.

Balancing precariously, I rip the bag open and retrieve a spring roll, shoving it into my mouth with less elegance than I’d like to admit. The taste is a heavenly blend of crispy, savory perfection.

---