Page 63 of Mourner for Hire
“Why can’t you do it?” Her green eyes brighten in the light like sea glass in the sun as she looks up at Eli helplessly.
Eli grins down at her. “Don’t worry. He has the steadier hand.”
She doesn’t seem convinced. “He’s a bartender.”
“He’s just as trained as me. If not more?—”
“All right. Ready?” I cut Eli off, kneeling next to her.
She meets my eyes, and I swear the eye contact could undo me.
“Don’t mess up.” The plead falls out of her mouth with a soft exhale.
I ignore the twist of empathy in my gut. “You’ll live.”
Eli stands and discards the gauze and gloves while I apply the glue and hold the skin in place.
“Your hands are softer than I remember,” she whispers, eyes closed as she inhales deeply.
I breathe out a small laugh. “You’re delirious from the blood loss.”
“Don’t say blood.”
I gently blow on the cut to help dry the glue, and as I do, I watch her shoulders relax and her throat dip in her neck as she swallows.
Her tough exterior cracks as she takes slow, deliberate breaths against the cold cement floor.
“This wasn’t very sanitary,” she says, her voice lifting a bit.
“You’ll survive… Unfortunately.”
She opens her eyes to glare at me, and I stand, backing away from my nemesis. My beautiful, infuriating nemesis.
“Now, Eli cleaned up your hair pretty well, but try not to get it wet for twenty-four hours, and in five days, you’ll be good as new.”
“Thank you.” She opens her palms and examines the crusted blood on her hand. “I need to wash my hands.”
I hold out a hand to help her stand. She takes it with an embarrassed smile, mutters another thank you, and heads to the sink.
At the same time, the door bursts open, and Connor is standing there with Marylou.
“Oh, honey, we heard you two got into it,” Marylou says with an angry scowl and arms crossed over her navy floral shawl. “What is wrong with you, Dominic?”
I toss my hands up as Connor charges me, grabbing my shirt and slamming me against the cinder block wall. I stare down at him as he yells, “What the hell, Dunner? You don’t lay hands on a woman. Ever. I don’t care if she scratched you.”
Vada’s eyes widen, and she stares at the two of us through the mirror. She spins around.
“He didn’thitme. And I certainly didn’t scratch him. How would that even—” she cuts herself off, the shock on her face waning as her mind realizes something. “Well, Dominic, if you’regoing to lead a girl on, maybe stop telling lies about her so that she doesn’t embellish them for the masses.”
And just like that, any empathetic truce in the room vanishes. She crosses her arms and relaxes her shoulders. The posture she takes is confident and singed with anger.
“Connor, let him go. I stood too quickly. I hit my head. Dominic came in here to help. That’s it.”
Connor lets go, but his grimace doesn’t budge.
“Are you sure, honey? Lyla seemed pretty upset as she relayed the encounter,” Marylou says.
“I’m sure she did,” Vada says to Marylou, but she looks directly at me. “I’m going back to the cottage. If one of you could relay my thanks to Mrs. Nettles for the necklace again, that would be great.”
