Page 57 of Illicit

“Probably because it wasn’t organized before they packed it. You know me.”

“I still think you need stitches. But this should get you by until tomorrow.” She moves into my small bathroom. “There’s no way you can do it with one hand. Do you think it’s clean?”

I grab a clean towel and press it to my arm. It’s stopped bleeding for the most part. “It’s clean enough. I had a tetanus shot before I left for the academy. At least there’s that.”

She works quickly with the butterfly bandages and even found some gauze and tape I had no idea I owned. It probably came from an old emergency kit that Annette bought me.

When she’s done, I hold up my arm. “Like old times.”

“I feel horrible. Hold your arm up so it doesn’t swell,” she says before her gaze shifts to my bare chest. “Look at you. You’re covered in blood.”

I shouldn’t let her. I still have one good hand. But it’s late, and I’m exhausted. So when she starts cleaning me, I don’t stop her. She’s focused on her task.

I’m focused on her.

“Tell me what happened. You said this was going to be a simple meeting for a money drop. How did you get to this point?”

She already feels guilty. I’m not about to make that worse. “Robichaux tried to make a point of what would happen to me if I ratted him out.”

She’s thorough in her work. I appreciate it for every reason that doesn’t have to do with being clean. Fighting my dick from appreciating it, too, might be the hardest task I’ve had all night.

When she’s finally happy with her work, she tosses the towel into the sink and looks up at me. “You should probably take something.”

I stare down at her. “Maybe you should’ve gone into health care. You would’ve aced the bedside-manner class. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about you meeting people like Robichaux. You haven’t even asked what I found out.”

She doesn’t hesitate. She steps in and plasters herself to me. She wraps her arms around my middle and presses her cheek to my heart. I bring my good arm around her back.

“I don’t care. I know I should, but I don’t. I’m too shaken up that you were hurt.”

I lean my ass on the counter and hold her to me. How can something familiar feel so fucking new? I close my eyes and bury my face in her hair to keep myself from doing anything else.

Doing what I feel like doing.

Because, at this moment, everything that’s wrong feels natural. I let this go on longer than I should.

I could stand here all night even though I’d rather be horizontal. I need to focus on something else.

I pull in a deep breath and pull away from her. She doesn’t let go, but when she looks up, her tears slay me more than that fucking knife did.

Like it’s instinctual—which it is not—I catch one with my thumb that falls down her cheek. “Teagan, I’m fine.”

“But you might not have been. If something happened to you because of me?—”

I shake my head. “Nothing was going to happen to me. I could’ve called for backup and didn’t. It was just a scuffle. I swear.”

Her small tits rise and fall with an exasperated breath. I realize she’s in another one of my T-shirts and it doesn’t feel like there’s anything beneath it. She’s also wearing a pair of my boxers that she no doubt had to roll to get them to stay up.

Fuck, I need to divert this. Nothing good happens when humans are tired and emotional. Common sense has a way of flying out the window. If I’ve learned anything from being a cop, it’s that.

“Let me take something and tell you about Heath. At least Robichaux followed through on his end of the bargain.”

She doesn’t seem excited to hear about Heath Hayes the way she’s been so focused on the last few days, but she does let go of me. I take this opportunity to move to my bedroom, and she follows.

I walk to the far side of my bed and grab a bottle of Tylenol off the nightstand. I’m surprised she doesn’t give me shit for leaving my stuff cluttered, but she doesn’t. She climbs on my bed, sits in the middle with her legs crossed, and never looks away from me like I’m going to pass out and die from a cut.

I down the meds with water that’s been sitting there for who knows how long since I haven’t slept in my own bed for two nights. I rip my belt off and toss it to the floor. “If Robichaux isn’t a liar and an asshole, Heath Hayes is in a Nigerian prison.”

That gets her attention. She’s as shocked as I was. “Prison?”

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