Page 19 of Undercover Star
"We have Josh. The bastard stabbed him. Josh tried to chase him down, but once he reached the crowd it was sorta pointless."
"What?" Matisse couldn't take in what Rigger had told him. The glint of metal he'd seen had been a knife? For real?
"Focus, Matisse. Are you ready to leave?"
"Who cares whether I'm ready or not? We need to call an ambulance and—"
"Matisse Vervein. Shut up and come with me." He headed off to the opposite side of the house where the guests' limos were lined up, waiting for their charges, and Matisse followed, numb with apprehension. Seconds later he ducked into the back and found Josh, slumped in the corner with a rag pressed tight to his side.
"Get us to the hospital," Matisse demanded.
"Don't," Josh grunted in reply. "I'm fine. It's a fucking slice, not a stab wound."
"And that makes a difference, how exactly?"
"Stab wounds do a lot of damage," Rigger explained while Oats reversed the limo and turned it to face the large gates. "A slice is like... like a paper cut."
"A paper cut?" Matisse's voice went into his highest register and he didn't care. It gave him a savage kind of satisfaction when Josh winced. "You're comparing a knife wound to a fucking paper cut?"
"Nasty things, paper cuts. They can get infected." Rigger chuckled.
"And knife wounds can't?"
"They're more obvious. You tend to take better care of them."
Matisse didn't bother with an answer. He wasn't really listening. He slid along the leather seat until he was beside Josh. "Are you—"Okayseemed a stupid thing to ask. He wanted to see, but he knew better than to turn on the dome light until they were clear of the fans clustering around the gate.
"I'm fine," Josh ground out a second time, and if Matisse hadn't known better he'd have said Josh sounded furious. "Are you okay?"
"You're asking me? You—" Matisse drew a deep breath. "Yes, I'm fine. I distracted the guests so nobody came after you, so don't be surprised if you read about— Oh, what the fuck! It doesn't fucking matter." He caught a brief glimpse of Josh's face in the brighter light from an oncoming car, saw the moisture on his brow and upper lip. "We need a hospital."
"I've already called Doc Cavour. He's meeting us at your place." As always, Robert Oats was the voice of reason. "If he says Josh needs a hospital, then we'll take him."
Matisse wanted to argue, but he bit his tongue. He was the star, but he was also the youngest one here. Both Rigger and Oats had served in the Army and Josh was a police officer. And while his fans could be scary, and had given him the odd black eye or blue bruise over the years, Matisse had been in the path of real violence only once. He had to trust the three knew what they were doing. At least Josh would have his injury looked at by a proper doctor.
The need to help didn't leave him. He pulled a bottle of water from the cooler between the seats and his handkerchief from his pocket. He wet the linen square and held it out to Josh.
"Here."
Josh stared at the damp cloth as if he'd never seen one before.
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Matisse wiped the sweat from Josh's face with quick, efficient strokes, then handed him a fresh bottle of water. "Drink. You don't want to be dehydrated." He grabbed a bottle for himself and drained it, suddenly thirsty beyond belief.
When he set the bottle down, he found his hands were shaking.
"It's okay, Matisse. Truly. It's not at all serious."
Josh's touch on his arm was feather light, but it burned right through the gaudy suit. He suddenly recalled the hard grip on his arm that had yanked him sideways just as he'd seen the metal glint. "He stabbed you on the stairs," he breathed, realising that Josh had gotten between him and the knife. "And you ran after him while you were hurt!"
He couldn't catch his breath. His heart sped as if it wanted to break free — and Josh's palm wrapped around his nape, warm and solid and there.
"Breathe. It's fine. He didn't get to you, Matisse. Just breathe."
Josh's interpretation was fifty shades of wrong. But there, in the semi-darkness, Matisse lacked the breath to correct him. Lacked the words to explain that he was freaking out, not because the thief had had a knife and been prepared to use it, but because Josh had stepped in front of him without a second thought.
