Page 59 of Painted Scars
“Momma’s sick,” I hiss at him, unlocking the door.
He quiets and sniffs as I cart her inside and kick the door closed with my boot. Claws click on the polished wooden floor behind me.
I get her upstairs and set her down on her bed, clothes on. One heel slips off, and I slide the other free and drop them both at her bedside. She’ll hate the mess, but she’ll live.
I peel back her comforter and lift her into place. PJ3 whines, leaps up and snuggles under the covers with her. I brush damp hair from her face.
“Watch her,” I tell him when he pokes his head out and blinks at me.
I get my phone and call the doc on our payroll.
“I’ve got an unconscious patient with suspected roofie ingestion,” I give him the details. “I don’t know how much she had.”
“No food or water,” he instructs me. “I’ll be there in thirty. Text me the address.”
Thirty minutes is too damn long. I send him the details.
When he arrives, he checks her over with detached and clinical precision. The way I’m supposed to be. Except she’s notjust another casualty. She’s mine, and I’m one heartbeat away from kicking a wall in.
The words barrel through my mind before I can pull them back. Mine? Fuck. No, she’s not. She can’t be soft and tangled in my sheets like she belongs there. We slept together, and that doesn’t change a thing. I lost control and that’s it. A lapse. A mistake I don’t want to admit when it was the first good thing in my life in a long time. I’m supposed to be watching her, gathering intel, but it’s turned into protecting her… or whatever the hell this is.
“No signs of assault,” he says, finishing his examination. “She’s breathing, and her vitals seem fine, given her condition. Do you want me to take her blood and test what she’s ingested?”
“No,” I reply.
Tom’s not going to see a courtroom. Not the kind with juries, loopholes, and Daddy’s lawyers on retainer. He’s got an appointment with a higher power that doesn’t wear robes, smash gavels, or accept plea deals.
“She’ll be out for a while.” The doc packs up his stethoscope. “Twelve hours or more.”
Facts I’m well aware of, given my former occupation.
“Get her to drink as much water as she can to flush the drug from her system.” The doc gives me his final instructions. “If she gets worse, call me or take her to the hospital.”
Not happening. Hospitals ask for names, insurance, and witness reports. I’m off the grid, and she doesn’t need to be on anyone’s radar by filing paperwork, especially with Katar off the leash. Kate will stay with me, and I’ll care for her. She’ll be good in half a day or so.
“Thanks, Doc.” I see him out and lock the door.
When I come back, PJ3 is licking her face.
“Good boy.” I scratch behind his ears, and he groans. “We’re both on guard duty now.”
Pulse pounding, I sit on the bed beside them, stroking her cheek with the back of my hand. Her hair’s messy, mascara smudged by sweat and heat, and there’s a bruise on her lip, which better not be from Tom, so help me, God.
I’ve stood in worse places. Blood-soaked crime scenes. Deserted warehouses riddled with bullet holes. Courtrooms full of cowards. But this feels different.
She murmurs something, her face pinched. My nickname, I think. It’s sluggish and incoherent.
I take her hand. It’s warm and soft in mine and fits like it belongs there. My thumb grazes over the back of her hand.
“Don’t leave your drink unattended again, Glitter Bomb,” I mutter, half scold, half plea.
Her hand twitches, but she doesn’t wake.
All I can do is sit and wait, alone and with too many thoughts I won’t name taking root in my chest. I turn away before they burrow deeper.
A text comes through.
Grayson: I’ve got eyes on the friend.
