Page 20 of Faron
Cyclone wiped blood from his cheek. “Next round’s on you.”
I grinned. “Gladly. Soon as I get back to LA. Got a doctor to see about a new scar.”
21
Blue
I’d just finished resetting a dislocated shoulder when the front door slammed like it paid rent.
No knock. No warning. Justhim.
Faron Lightfoot. Muddy boots. Shirt half out. Bruised, bleeding, grinning like a devil who’d won his war and came home to brag.
“You look like hell,” I said.
He winked. “You always say the nicest things.”
I marched up, cupped his jaw, turned his face to the light.
Fresh bruises. Fresh stitches. Same old dumb heart beating under that chest like it belonged to me.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine—”
“Sit, or I sedate you.”
He sat.
I peeled back his collar and hissed at the stitches. “Who the hell did this? A drunk raccoon?”
“River. He’s sensitive, you know.”
My hands shook.
“Hey,” he whispered, catching my wrist. “I came home. Like I said I would.”
I pressed my forehead to his. Let the war drop out of my hands.
“Idiot,” I whispered.
“Meanest doctor in LA.”
I kissed him. Hard.
Someone whistled behind us.
I flipped them off without breaking the kiss.
Faron just smiled.
Maybe he’d won me.
Maybe I didn’t care.
22
Blue
