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I pulled her back down to her chair. “Wasn’t talking to you, baby. You’re always welcome.”
“Jesus. He’s unbearable even on his deathbed.” Taylor rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, standing at the door. “I thought a near-death experience was going to change him. Make him see the light.”
“Told ya.” Dylan smirked, opening her palm and angling it in his direction. He slapped a fifty-dollar bill into it with a groan.
She slid the note into her bra. “My brother can stand in a lamp showroom and still not see the light.”
“Honey, we’re so glad you’re awake.” Mom hurried to her feet from a blue recliner in the corner of the room, blowing her nose into a handkerchief. “How are you feeling?”
Horny. “Fine.” I swept my tongue over my lower lip, and it felt like licking sandpaper. “Thirsty.”
“I’ll get you some ice water and call the nurse. Be right back.” Mom dashed out of the room.
“What happened?” Cal asked softly, her fingertips tracing the veins and ridges of my hand soothingly. A ripple of desire zinged through my chest. Goddammit, did my craving for her have any limits? I would probably try to climb out of my own fucking coffin to hit on this woman if I were lucky enough to have her attend my funeral.
“It looks worse than it is.” I snatched her hand up, placing it on the bed next to me and breaking contact before my semi blossomed into a full-blown anaconda. “Some punks jumped me in the alleyway when I went to take out the trash.”
“Randy and Lyle?” Cal’s eyes flared.
I shook my head. “They were bigger, younger, and knew how to throw a punch.”
“I spoke to Sheriff Menchin. He said he was on his way.” Dylan rubbed her belly back and forth. “We’re getting to the bottom of this.”
“Menchin will be getting to the bottom of his beer bottle sooner.” Taylor snorted, shaking his head. “He’s useless where Row’s concerned. He hates his guts.”
“Real talk, he has every reason to. Your beau is a bona fide villain.” Dylan winked at Cal, and I didn’t know what entertained me more—hearing Dylan refer to me as Cal’s beau or the latter’s face, which turned as pink as her tasty little clit.
“We’ll take it to state level if need be.” Taylor slammed his own thigh with his fist. “This lawless shit stops here.”
“I’m not taking anything anywhere,” I grunted, trying to shift to my side and immediately regretting it. “I’m leaving in three weeks and have no desire to drown in paperwork. Now, can someone call a doctor so I can get my medical diagnosis?”
“You’re a jerk,” Taylor provided unhelpfully. “Cureless condition.”
“The best cure would be getting the fuck out of here and not seeing your face again,” I answered charitably.
Cal froze next to me. I immediately regretted my words. I hadn’t even thought about London these past few weeks, not since we’d spent real time together. At the same time, staying in Staindrop was not an option. I hated the place and the memories attached to it. London wasn’t just my plan; it was also my reality, with all the money and means I had sunk into it.
“Should we file a complaint against Menchin?” Dylan turned to Taylor, ignoring my ass.
“No, Row would just become more unbearable, and it’s already next to impossible to work with him.” Taylor sighed, pointing at me. “To your question—you got stabbed, lost a shit ton of blood, and slipped out of consciousness for a minute there. Honestly? Didn’t think you’d make it. Then, when they ushered you here, it turned out your attackers didn’t hit anything substantial. Guess there’s a plus to not having a heart.”
I had a heart. It just beat for a girl who wasn’t interested in it.
“Doc told your mom you should be outta here in a few days,” Dylan added.
I shook my head. “I gotta get back to Descartes.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you. I’ve already handled the schedule, ordered inventory, and taken over your station.” Taylor flashed me an uncertain look, ducking his head in embarrassment.
“You did that?” I blinked in confusion.
He shrugged, downplaying it. “Whether you trust me or not, someone had to take care of business.”
“I do trust you.” As I said these words, I realized I meant them. Taylor was a damn talented kid with nerves of steel and some of the best culinary instincts I’d seen. He thrived under pressure and shared the same intolerance to idiots who couldn’t tell raw from medium-well. We got along. Parting ways was gonna suck. Most people were stunningly bad at their jobs.
The door whined open, and Mom walked in, armed with a jug of ice water, a nurse, a doctor, and Rhyland.
Thankfully, the doctor, a balding man in his fifties, wasn’t fond of mass gatherings when giving his diagnosis. He cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Casablancas should have some space. I suggest you choose one person to stay with you while we discuss your injuries and treatment.”
