Chapter 13 #3
A sliver of jealousy slid through me. I had no clue who he was talking about, but he obviously knew her. That meant it was an automatic dislike for me. “Should I?”
He waved his hand in the air. “She runs around with a purple backpack, doing shit.”
“What?” Maybe the pain meds were still in his system. Maybe Doc gave him too much. I looked up at the IV and the empty bag hanging from the pole.
“It’s a TV show for kids,” he explained, then slowly leaned toward the headboard. Worried about his shoulder, I scrambled forward to grab two pillows and stuff them behind his back.
“Should I call the doctor?”
Half smiling, he tipped back his head to lean against the cushion. “You worried about me, Pip?”
“Yes—no!” I said, tripping over myself. “You got shot because of me.”
His chin tipped so his eyes could caress my face. “It was worth it.”
He’d said that before too. Back at the Neon Reef. But his actions and words did not align. Made me feel like a ping-pong ball bouncing between them.
Trying to decipher anything about him was like trying to understand Morse code. It was better just to stick to facts. “So the money was for me?”
“Well, I wouldn’t leave five grand around for anyone else.”
“I wondered if maybe that was your norm.”
His head pulled away from the cushion so he could level me with the intensity of his stare. “Excuse me?”
I shrugged as though my stomach wasn’t churning like I’d eaten some bad fish. Seriously, though, one time I ate some sushi that a local grocery store put in the trash. It was only expired by one day, so I figured how bad could it be.
It was a disaster in 3D.
I almost died.
And I can assure you I will never eat fish again.
“I thought maybe that was the going rate for sex workers around here,” I said as if the idea of him paying me like a prostitute didn’t insult the hell out of me.
He sat up, offense written all over him and the air around him. “You think I paid you for sex?”
“Well, it’s either that or you felt sorry for me. I think I’d rather be a prostitute than pitied.”
Eyes flashing, he jolted forward, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck and squeezing like he could brand the skin. “You been having sex with people for money?”
Why did that sound like a threat?
Why wasn’t I afraid?
I tried to shrug him off, but he refused to budge. The accusation in his eyes made me feel I was somehow in the wrong. “No!” I shouted. “The only person who’s ever treated me like a prostitute is you!”
He made a noise, the combination of a moan and a whine, and pulled me into a forced hug so I was between his spread thighs and my cheek was pressed against his chest.
“Leaving you there was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I knew I couldn’t have you. I knew you deserved better than me and the life you had. I never once thought of you as—as that. Jesus, just the thought of you selling yourself to anyone’s filthy hands makes me want to ruin them.”
“I didn’t,” I croaked, understanding for the first time why everyone called him Ghost. Because right then, he sounded haunted. And so did I.
He forced me back just enough to take hold of my face, studying me with his scrutinizing gaze almost as if he were trying to decide if I was telling the truth.
I let him look. I had nothing to hide. And even if I had turned to the streets to live, then it would have been my choice.
He let out a breath, thumb sweeping tenderly over my cheek, and dropped his forehead to mine. “You’re still just as soft as I remember.”
“I’m not soft,” I protested.
He squeezed his eyes shut but didn’t put distance between us. “You are, and it’s going to be my downfall.”
It took a second for his words to sink in, but once they did, hurt pierced me like the sharpest blade.
“Lucky for you, I’m not staying,” I retorted and scrambled off the bed. Okay, I rolled off. Good thing there was a rug.
Ooof. I really didn’t need the reminder of how sore I was.
Feet that were about twice the size of mine dropped over the foot of the bed, planting right in front of me.
I pushed up as he reached down, catching me around the waist and lifting like I was some kind of lightweight.
Listen, I carried my body around all day, and I can say emphatically that I am not.
Even though I would rather chew glass than let him help me, I didn’t fight. “You’re going to rip your stitches.”
“I only need one arm for this.”
How. Rude.
The second I was upright, I skittered away from his hold and lifted a hand in farewell. “So, ah, thanks for taking that bullet,” I said, suddenly awkward and two seconds from crying.
Thanks for taking that bullet? This was why I wasn’t a writer.
Broiling in my own embarrassment, I started for the door.
“Bold of you to assume leaving is an option,” he called after me.
At the door, I stopped and turned around. “You can’t make me stay.”
His eyes flashed, and he lunged forward, only to be stopped by the IV line sticking out of the inside of his elbow. Hissing, he glanced down at the offending catheter, then covered it with his free hand.
Worry lanced through me, and I forgot the door and turned completely around. Instead of expressing my grave concern, I decided to taunt him. “Looks like you’re the one that has to stay.”
His eyes flashed up to mine, skewering me where I stood. The oxygen in my lungs evaporated like water on a July day, and my heart started to pound. Holding my stare, he curled his hand around the IV and yanked, ripping everything away in one aggressive tug.
I gasped, mouth hanging open as my stomach clenched from the pain that had to have caused. Even as blood welled, he acted like it was merely lint on his sweater and tossed the line away to stalk forward. I stood there frozen like prey in a predator’s crosshairs with nowhere to run.
And then I remembered the door.
Let’s all ignore the high-pitched shriek I let loose as I spun to bolt. But just as I rushed forward, the door swung in, and, well, a collision seemed imminent.