Page 25 of Iron Hearts

“No, the tile is cold and hard.” She rolled her eyes.

I fought not to laugh and told her, “Don’t make me laugh. It’s pulling.”

“Sorry,” she said.

I came into the room and sat down, the towel riding low on my hips, gaping dangerously as I swung my legs up. She pulled the bottom sheet up over me and said, “I’ve never used these before.”

“They’re easy. Just do your best to get one side affixed, pull the wound together, and strap down the other side so it holds things close,” I told her.

“God, that sounds like it’s going to hurt,” she said and looked a little green around her gills. She’d taken down her hair, and the towel was gone, but her hair was still damp, falling in snaking locks around her face.My little mermaid…the thought came to me unbidden, and I shoved it away. Still, right on the heels of that, I thought,I guess that makes her green around her mermaid gills.

“I am so sorry!” she hissed when I coughed to try and cover my laugh at my own joke.

Ah, shit, she thinks she hurt you, dumbass!

“All good,” I said. “Just keep going and get ‘er done.”

She smirked and asked, “Just how old are you?”

I grinned and said, “Probably old enough to be your daddy.”

She rolled her eyes and said, “I’m twenty-four, so I’m betting not.”

“I’m forty-two, so I say it’s possible.”

She blinked at me, bewildered, and said, “There is no way you’re forty-anything.”

I chuckled and asked, “Aw yeah? What makes you say that?”

We both froze as we heard a sound in the kitchen, and I pointed to the television mounted to her wall. She leaned closer, picked up the remote off the nightstand, and turned it on for noise. She quickly scrolled through streaming services, landed on some educational one, and turned on some true crime.

“Never understood women’s obsession with true crime,” I muttered and she looked at me bewildered again and blinked.

“It’s so we don’t become victims ourselves,” she said, and I raised an eyebrow.

“You won’t catch a true crime girly falling for a dude with his arm in a cast asking for help – the wounded bird shtick was so Bundy and nope, nope, nope – not falling forthat.”

“But you’ll pick up a Royal Bastard, help him hide from the cops, and doctor him up in your bedroom?” I raised my eyebrows, a slow grin overtaking my lips.

“That’s different,” she said, rolling her eyes. I tried to keep my laughter silent.

“Hold still!” she chastised me in a harsh whisper.

“Make it make sense,” I shot back.

“Are you a rapist piece of shit?” she asked, giving me a baleful look.

“No!” I answered quickly without thinking.

“Well, okay, then. I guess we’re good.” She had a faint smile on her lips, and I was officially mollified.

“You’re something else,” I said and let it shine in my tone that I was duly impressed. Her smile flexed in response before she could hide it at the praise, and that made mine flex in return.

“There,” she said with finality and leaned back. “I think that’s as good as it’s going to get.”

“Thanks,” I said softly.

“My name’s Zach. Zachary Carlin. Everybody calls me Striker, though.”

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