Page 41 of Jameson’s Salvation

It didn’t help that as he was pulling into Kennedy’s drive, one of his favorite songs came on the radio. He’d parked his truck and let the lyrics soak in. The Cody Jinks song summed up his life. Right down to the part about life never being the same. Every time he’d heard the song in the past, he’d zeroed in on the part about bad news always finding him.

That’s what his life had felt like, bad news seemed to follow him.

But then there was Kennedy, and he understood why the Cody Jinks’ lyrics had called to him. His life would never be the same, and the thin line between joy and pain was forefront in his mind. And for the first time in his life he wasn’t scared of falling in love and hurting the other person. He was afraid he’d be the one to get hurt.

Or had that been his fear all along?

“Why are we here?” Kennedy’s question pulled him from his thoughts.

“Weston was over in Baltimore serving a subpoena and caught a blade to the arm and needs me to stitch him up.”

“What?” she screeched and scrambled off his lap.

“Then why are we sittin’ in the car makin’ out?”

“We weren’t makin’ out, babe. We were talking.”

“Why are we still sitting here now? Wait! Why isn’t he at the hospital?”

Jameson tried not to laugh at the expressions she was making. She was flustered for sure, but she looked damn cute trying to shift through her thoughts.

“He doesn’t need a hospital; he just needs stitches. He would’ve done them himself but he can’t reach.”

She opened her car door and Jameson followed suit. He met her at the hood and grabbed her hand. She was nearly dragging him across the street in her haste to get to Weston.

Jameson unlocked the front door and Kennedy bolted up the stairs and stopped on the landing. As soon as he’d made it to the top, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. When she recovered, she asked, “You’re going to give Weston stitches?”

“Yep.”

He opened the door and waited for her to precede him.

“Took you long enough,” Weston growled as soon as Jameson closed the door.

“You said it was just a flesh wound. I would’ve driven faster if you’d nicked something important.”

“Yeah, a flesh wound that’s bleeding like a motherfucker.”

“Did you clean it and try glue?” Jameson asked.

Weston shot Jameson a look that couldn’t have been mistaken for anything other than what it was and Jameson smiled. His friend wanted to tell him to eat a bag of dicks, but he wouldn’t say it. Not in front of Kennedy.

“Sit down,” Kennedy commanded, coming out of the bathroom with a towel and a wet washcloth.

Weston did as he was told and she pulled the bloody shirt he’d used as a tourniquet from his bicep and winced. The wound was on his bicep but went far enough back out of sight Weston wouldn’t be able to tie off the sutures.

Jameson studied the three-inch laceration and luckily it was a clean, straight slice. It would be easy to close up.

“Yep, that needs stitches all right. I’d guess twelve, maybe fifteen,” Jameson announced and Weston flipped him off.

Kennedy pressed the washcloth against Weston’s arm and her other hand went to his back to steady herself as she applied pressure.

Suddenly and with shocking clarity, Jameson understood Nixon. The man was positively insane when it came to McKenna. None of them could get near her without him looking harassed. Therefore, his friends did it more, just to get under his skin. They’d hug her hello, hug her goodbye, pat her on the back when she worked her magic and found them the intel they needed. Anytime they could, they’d touch her in a brotherly way. Nixon hated it.

Seeing Weston sitting with his shirt off and Kennedy’s hands on his bare skin sent him ballistic.

“Did the big asshole just growl?” Weston asked. “Possessive asshole. Maybe if you weren’t sucking face outside in your truck and you’d come up here sooner, your woman wouldn’t be worried about me bleeding out.”

“You’re not gonna bleed out, idiot.”