Page 8 of Trailer Trash

“I’ll go dancing with you,” he adds.

I don’t laugh this time. Because what I just felt, I don’t like. Getting a thrill from men like him is how I find trouble. I don’t need to repeat the past.

“Um... no dancing. Thanks, though,” I say sweetly, but I feel like I’m kicking a guy while he’s in a hospital bed. So I soften it with humor. “Spoiled brats can’t keep up with me on the dance floor.”

“Jesus,” he says to himself. “It’s bad when the lowest rung at a hospital says no.”

“Excuse me?” I furrow my brow. I think that was a slight at me.

His smile vanishes. His gaze turns assessing and cold, holding mine until my own smile slips.

Then—

“I don’t want to get sober.”

A confession, raw and shameless. Not a plea for help. Just a fact, laid between us like a loaded gun.

Of course. The first man to make my pulse trip since Evan has to say something like that.

So I give Killian what I should’ve given Evan: the truth.

With a gentle touch, I rest my hand over his, mostly to cover the face of Freddy Krueger, who is tattooed on the top of his hand. Very disturbing. Not hot at all. Gosh, he has more going up his arm. More horror-movie monsters. Yep. Not hot. Besides, touch calms patients. This is good bedside manner.

He remains still, watching, waiting for whatever generic lines people usually feed him.

“You need to be told what a fuck-up you are more often.”

His brow arches and he blinks, as if unsure whether he heard correctly.

“So listen to me,” I continue. “Are you ugly? A little. Are you a fuck-up? Hell yes. And right now, you’re wasting a life most people would kill for because getting high is easy. So quit feeling sorry for yourself.”

Killian’s deep brown eyes narrow, just for a second. Then, he cocks his head and replies coolly.

“That’s your motivational speech? Tough love?”

“Mm-hm. I bet nobody gives you tough love. That’s bad, because someone as difficult as you needs it.”

“How would you know what I need?”

“I dated a guy with a drug problem. My ex. I was too nice,” I say, admitting my own ugly truth.

“Where is he now?”

“Who cares?” I answer bitterly. “As long as he isn’t in my bank account. I have bills.”

“Tough girl,” he murmurs.

“Yes, I am,” I say halfheartedly.

I squeeze his hand, my touch suddenly more purposeful. I even stroke my thumb over the top like I actually care. Maybe I do. Nurses are supposed to be caring in a different way than CNAs. It’s practice. The energy in the room shifts, more tense, because my truth isn’t as easy for me to say.

“I always thought if I made Evan happy, he’d get sober, but it just made him worse.” My eyes shift from his hand to his eyes, which are almost too intense to look into.

The nurse and another woman step into the room. I startle and jerk my hand free, but not fast enough.

He snatches my wrist. My gaze snaps from the women to him, shocked that he’s grabbing my arm in such a fierce hold. He lets go and looks at the nurse, pretending nothing happened.

What the heck?