Chapter Nine
ADAM
Lyla shifted in the passenger seat, pulling my attention over to her.
She’d slept a lot in those first few days staying with me, with yesterday being the first day she didn’t need multiple naps.
She hadn’t had any dizziness in the last two days, and only a mild headache, so I assumed her follow-up would go fine today.
It had been almost a week since the accident, and other than some lingering bruises, the stitched-up wound near her temple, and the sling her arm was still in, you wouldn’t even be able to tell she was in an accident.
Hopefully after her appointment she could start working on getting back to normal, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy taking care of her.
I glanced in the rearview at the car that had made the same last three turns that I had. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I didn’t like it. Was someone following us? There was only one way to find out for sure.
I made a right and the car behind us followed.
“What are you doing?” Lyla looked over at me with her brows pulled together.
“I think someone’s following us.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the car behind us. I made another right and this time they didn’t follow. Okay, so apparently I was just paranoid.
She shrugged and relaxed back in her seat. “Not anymore.”
But unease settled in my gut five minutes later as a similar blue car pulled out onto the road behind us. “Is that the same car?” I asked out loud, mostly to myself.
“Now you’re just being paranoid.” I sensed the eye roll in her tone without even looking at her, and I hoped she was right.
“Can you snap a picture of their license plate?”
She scoffed. “I only have one good arm, and it’s my non-dominant one. You want me to turn around in the seat and hold the phone steady to get a good picture?”
“Can you take the wheel then?”
Her eyebrows shot up high on her forehead. “Are you serious?”
I glanced in the rearview just as the car sped up, getting a little too close to the bumper of my car for comfort. Would he try running us off the road like he did the ambulance? No way would I let that happen. I made a sudden right and breathed out a sigh of relief when the car didn’t follow.
Lyla glanced over her shoulder. “You really think it was the same car?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
We were both quiet as I drove the rest of the way to the hospital. She kept looking around, seeming uncomfortable. That made two of us.
Maybe she was starting to realize that Kyle was right, and was coming to terms with what I also believed. Whoever ran them off the road actually meant to do them harm.
LYLA
The whole ride to the hospital felt weird. Adam was sure we were being followed, and by the time we arrived, my gut screamed at me that something wasn’t right. Almost like that feeling of being watched…or, well…followed.
Maybe Kyle was right.
But the drive home was uneventful, and I was determined to dwell on the positive note from the afternoon.
The doctor had given me the all clear—or mostly—to slowly resume normal activities.
But only to the point I could handle. I obviously still couldn’t use my shoulder yet, not until physical therapy started.
But I could start reading and watching TV again.
Even take short walks if I felt up to it.
I leaned back against the railing of Adam’s balcony, glancing over at him cooking a few burgers on the electric grill he had out there. His outdoor setup was so much nicer than the one at my apartment.
A cooing sound came from above me, and I glanced up, spotting a pigeon sitting on the edge of the balcony above us. I didn’t even have a chance to wonder why it was fluffing up its feathers, and, as usual, my reflexes failed me as I watched something drop toward me and land in my hair.
My body finally moved and I jumped away from the edge with a squeal of disgust.
“What’s wrong?” Adam stared at me with concern in his eyes.
“I’m pretty sure a freaking pigeon just pooped in my hair.”
“Seriously?” He stepped toward me as I bent my head forward so he could look at the offended spot. “Only you could have a bird poop in your hair. I’ll grab you a wet paper towel.”
He chuckled and I whipped my gaze up. “Eww, no. I need to wash it.”
His lips lifted into a smirk. “You know they say it’s good luck.”
“That’s great.” I rolled my eyes, stalking toward the door and yanking it open. “Doesn’t mean I’m leaving it in my hair all night.”
I had already showered for the day, but there was no way I was leaving bird poop in my hair for another second, let alone minutes or hours, and a wet paper towel was not going to cut it for me.
I didn’t want to risk washing it too close to bedtime, either.
Going to sleep on wet curls meant waking up to disaster. And a rewash.
Maybe I could handle a quick wash with my good arm before he was finished with the burgers. It didn’t hurt to try.
Picking up an old T-shirt from my room to wrap my curls, I headed into the bathroom, feeling more confident in my abilities than I probably had a right to a week post-concussion.
Plus, it was no secret Murphy and I were on a first-name basis, that wonderful law of his creating havoc in my life far too often.
Still, I’d washed my hair thousands of times in my lifetime.
This was the easy stuff. What was the worst that could happen?
After removing my shirt and bra, I grabbed the handheld sprayer and sat on the edge of the tub. I didn’t want to put too much pressure on my shoulder by leaning over the side, so this way seemed like a better choice.
Well, until I sat back up after wetting it down.
Reaching out to grab the shampoo, the room started to spin as I was hit with a wave of dizziness. I felt myself slipping off the edge, but there wasn’t anything I could do to stop the inevitable. Fortunately, I was already sitting down, so I didn’t have far to go.
The sprayer slipped from my hand and banged against the wall. At least I had the foresight in the moment to protect my bad shoulder, spinning my body so I landed on my back in the tub.
Putting myself right in the path of the sprayer, which was shooting water directly at me.
I clambered against the side, attempting to sit up. No luck there. I slipped back down like a wet fish.
This was going well.
“Oh my God.” The water continued to spray my face, everything was slippery, and I couldn’t get a grip on anything, especially with only one hand. “Goddammit.”
Why did this crap always happen to me?
Fucking Murphy and his damn law.
A knock sounded on the bathroom door. “Lyla?”
Oh thank God. “Help,” I called.
The door swung open, and Adam’s eyes widened as he took me in.
His gaze traveled down to my chest, and he muttered a choked “Fuck” as he blinked slowly, twice, then covered his eyes with one hand and turned away.
His eyes caught mine in the mirror, dipped again, and he uttered another strained “Fuck” as he turned toward the door.
It finally dawned on me that I wasn’t wearing a shirt. “Close your eyes!” I screeched as I covered my breasts with my good arm.
He pinched his eyes closed and just stood there, rigid and unmoving. What was he waiting for? Maybe he was so surprised my tits were hanging out he didn’t realize the water was spraying me in the face.
“Turn off the water,” I hollered when he still didn’t move.
“How do you want me to do that with my eyes closed?”
Did he not know the layout of his own bathroom?
“Follow my voice. I’ll guide you.”
He stepped forward and moved his hand along the sink, knocking my curl cream off the vanity.
“Not the sink. Over here.” I huffed and tried to cover the spray of water with my foot, which just ended up diverting water to the sides, making even more of a mess. But at least it wasn’t spraying right at me anymore.
Slowly making his way toward me, he felt around for the handle, finally finding it and turning off the water. Still keeping his eyes closed, he fumbled around for a towel on the shelf above the toilet and held it out to me.
“Cover up and I’ll help you out of the tub. Then you can explain what the hell happened.”
Was it not obvious? Why else would I be half naked, sprawled out in his tub. I sighed and covered my breasts with the towel.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He opened his eyes and awkwardly tried to help me up, almost like he didn’t know where to put his hands and was trying not to touch me.
I felt tears threatening to spill free as a mix of embarrassment and discouragement welled up. “I just wanted to wash my damn hair. Is that too much to ask?”
He stared down at me and I couldn’t decipher the look in his eyes.
“Here.” He unfolded the shower chair and put it backwards in the tub. “Let me do it.”
I shook my head. No way could I ask him to do that. “It’s fine. I can wait.”
“Lyla.” He narrowed his eyes. “Sit down and let me help you.”
I recognized the look he gave me. It was the one that said don’t argue. I let out a breath and sat down in the chair, holding the towel against my body.
As he washed my hair, I tried not to notice how good his hands felt. Because damn did they feel good. Too good.
I shifted uncomfortably. He was my friend who was just helping me out in a bind. I wasn’t allowed to be turned on by his touch. We weren’t like that.
A moan slipped involuntarily from my lips and I opened my eyes wide in surprise.
He smirked down at me, but then his gaze drifted lower and his pupils flared out. I swallowed, and for a passing second, I wanted to let go of the towel and find out what he’d do.
But then he forced his gaze back on my hair and I felt stupid for letting myself get swept up into a moment that was just a product of a ridiculous situation.
What the hell was wrong with me?