Page 36 of Lucky Laces
But near enough that the end of the asshole bitching my back seat is in sight.
“Right,” Hudson mutters.
But there’s misery in his eyes.
And on his face.
Damn, that means the pain is creeping back in.
It took a lot out of him to lift himself from the bed and into the wheelchair, no matter that Kelly, the nurse, and I each grabbed one of his arms to help with some of the load (while Jim bitched).
And it took more to haul himself into the passenger’s seat of my car.
And each bounce and jar—and there are a lot of them post-quake—deepens the lines around his mouth, his eyes.
Yeah, he needs to be in bed.
Without a bitching dad in earshot.
But I’ve yet to come up with a plan as how to accomplish that.
“Just up here on the left,” Hudson says.“The white house with the oak tree out front.”
It’s a charming bungalow built in typical California craftsman style—a wide open porch that’s dotted with pillars, their bottom halves covered in stone and the top framed with natural wood.That same wood is carried over to the windows, to surround the front door.A path winds its way down several steps that are going to be a bitch for Hudson to traverse.
And a plan begins to form in my head.
An idiotic, dangerous for my heart and mind andjobplan.
So dumb and perilous that I’m likely to come to regret it.
And yet?—
“Christ, will you just pull into the driveway already?I’ve got to take a piss!”
“Jim!”Betty gasps, adding the thirteenth word to her list for the evening.And then her fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth.“Don’t be crass!”
“Is your bedroom on the second floor?”I ask Hudson.
He frowns, eyes coming to mine, confusion in the gray depths.“Um…yes?”
“Right,” I mutter.
I turn into the driveway, park, but catch Hudson’s arm when he reaches for the door handle.“Wait.”
His frown deepens.“What is it?”
“Do you have a code for the garage?Or a hide-a-key?”
Jim shoves open his door.“I have a key.Let’s fucking go.”
I lift my brows at Hudson, silently questioning his choice onthatmatter.
He sighs softly then shrugs as if to say, “Have you met the man?”
Right.Bitchy McBitchFace likely demanded a key.
“Let me handle this,” I murmur.
