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“So do it, but don’t forget that I’ve seen how you look at Jory.”
My heart almost stopped. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Not like that, idiot.” He glared at me. “I’ve seen you look at Jory and how he looks at me, and I know you fuckin’ want that. You want a man to come home to. I get it.”
I scoffed. “So, you think Jory thinks you walk on water, huh?”
“No,” he said huskily. “Jory can see every single one of my flaws. He just forgives them. And I know how he looks at me. I know I’m loved. Who loves you?”
And it was a question I couldn’t answer.
After Sam finally left, they moved me to another room and fixed all the reports with my fake name, Tucker Ross. Soon after, DEA Agent Derrick Chun and his partner, Agent Barnaby Owens, were brought into my room by FBI Special Agent Conner Wray. He thanked me, shook my hand, and cautioned me to be careful. It was nice that he gave me his card, with his cell number scribbled on the back, and said if I got in trouble, to call. The look he shot the two DEA agents was not kind. Yes, they were all working together, but it was more than obvious Wray thought they might get me killed.
“We won’t let you get killed,” was the first thing Chun imparted. It did not inspire confidence.
They left quickly after promising to be in touch and giving me an untraceable cell to hide—which was not great, considering I was in the hospital—and then I was alone to reflect on the state of my life. It was fucked, was what it was.
TWO
The hospital wanted to keep me another night since I had a concussion, but I’d had enough of them in my life to know the difference between a slight one and a bad one. I wasn’t nauseous, nor did I have a splintering headache behind my right eye, but most of all—and this was the clincher—everything was the correct color. My vision wasn’t blurry or spotty, so against medical advice, I signed myself out.
I was walking out of my room when I saw Joaquin and the others at the nurses’ station.
“Hey,” I called to them.
Joaquin levered himself up off the counter where he had been leaning and jogged over to me, Benny and Andre close behind him.
“You all right?” he inquired, looking worried.
His gaze met mine, and when he reached me, his hand went on my shoulder. It was funny, but it seemed like he honestly cared.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
He didn’t look convinced. “So, where is your crib, man?”
“Brooklyn,” I said, as I had been programmed to.
He shook his head. “Nah. Now you live in Musa’s old place. I had it all cleaned up for ya.”
“Oh no, boss, you don’t gotta do that.”
“Yeah, he does,” Benny assured me.
“Yeah, I do.” Joaquin chuckled as Andre slid his arm around my shoulders.
“Come on, man. Let’s go. We’ll go get your shit first.”
“You look like ass.” Benny scrunched up his face like I smelled.
“I’ll be fine.”
“How many stitches?” Joaquin wanted to know.
“Only ten or so,” I lied. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I said diversion, buddy, not World War III.”
“I think Pedro was the one with the knife.”
