Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 139088 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139088 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
But Jacques totally missed Knox when he was gone.
And this would be temporary.
I couldn’t do that to my dog again.
While Knox showered, I killed time replying to our Angels text string (it seemed all were in favor of feeling out Byron, not to mention my reprieve to talk about Chambers Family Business was going to last until Saturday, because Gemma was pulling together a karaoke night for Friday, and that totally worked for me—not karaoke, which I detested, but delaying our official Angels confab).
“Babe! You’re up!” Knox shouted from upstairs.
“Do you have everything I need up there?” I shouted back.
“Yeah!” Another shout.
I walked up the stairs.
I stopped dead in his doorway when I saw him shirtless, wearing loose workout shorts that were long in the leg, but he’d tucked one up on one side. He was sitting on the side of his bed, his wounds exposed.
My head went woozy, and I had to wrap my fingers around the doorframe to stay standing.
He might have been wounded, but he was right up in my space, lickety-split, one hand holding tight at my waist, the other at my neck, his face in mine, his lips whispering, “Baby.”
“Those look awful,” I whispered, staring at the one in his shoulder close up.
Good God.
So awful.
And painful.
“They’re not as bad as they seem.”
I tipped my eyes to his.
We were close enough to kiss.
“Are you sure?” I was still whispering.
“I’m sure.”
I said nothing and didn’t move.
“Maybe I should call Shirleen. See if she can deal with—” he began.
I shook my head and stepped back, out of his space, out of his hold.
I straightened my spine and declared, “I got this.”
“Shirleen won’t mind.”
“I’ve got this, Knox,” I stated firmly.
He studied me before he nodded and limped back to the bed.
He had the stuff beside him.
Okay, maybe I didn’t have this because I had no idea what to do.
“You’re gonna have to talk me through it,” I told him.
“Gotcha,” he said and then handed me some gauze. “Let’s go.”
He talked me through it.
One could say the bandage around his shoulder didn’t look half as tidy as the one he’d had before. I hadn’t seen the one that was on his leg, and, fortunately, the job I did on that one didn’t look too bad.
However, being that close to him, smelling the fresh-soap smell mingled with all that was Knox, touching his warm skin, doing this while his deep voice murmured instructions, in a room where we’d repeatedly been as close as two human beings could get—all of it did a number on me.
So I didn’t want to scurry away from him when I was done.
But I sure did.
“Right, let’s get you back downstairs so I can see to Jacques,” I said, not able to look him in the eyes.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything. But he did wait for me to precede him.
I was down the stairs in less than half the time it took him, but I still waited and watched his painful descent.
When he was down, he walked me to the door.
I was ready for a quick escape when he asked, “You bringing Jacques over tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I answered immediately.
Me:
Big.
Idiot.
He smiled. “Great.”
Goddammit.
“Time now for you to take it easy,” I ordered.
His smile stayed in place. “Will do.”
“Later,” I said.
“Later, baby,” he replied.
Another endearment.
I hoofed it to the Prius.
As I started up my car, I realized I hadn’t asked what our talk was going to be about.
And as I was driving out of his complex, I told myself he seemed good. He was getting around. He had a lot of folks dropping by. I needed to stop doing this.
I told myself this.
But I still knew I’d be there in the morning, with Jacques, and I’d be there in the afternoon, to pick up Jacques.
I also knew Raye was right.
I needed to figure my shit out.
Because one thing I wasn’t being clueless about.
I knew I was in big trouble.
SEVEN
I’M ME
“This is some lame-ass shit,” Knox grumbled from behind me. “Dude’s shot off fifty-seven rounds…from a handgun, for fuck’s sake.”
I twisted my neck from where I was lying, tucked in front of him on his cozy, comfy, deep-seated couch.
“You counted the rounds?” I asked.
“There went five more,” he said, then continued with advice I hoped I never needed, because Angels carried Tasers not guns, and we always would, “You always count the rounds.”
Interesting.
And terrifying.
“And there isn’t a handgun in existence with a magazine that carries sixty-two rounds,” he finished.
We were watching a spy thriller, shoot-’em-up that did, indeed, require some serious suspension of disbelief.
But it was a streaming TV show.
And I thought it was awesome.
“Also, no man is gonna storm a warehouse on his own against forty, fifty of the enemy, and have those enemies be stupid enough to rush him, while carrying guns of their own, so he can shoot them, essentially point blank,” Knox carried on. “He’d be dead two steps in because they’d shoot from their positions, but I’ll give him five steps since he took them by surprise.”