Although the bastard seems to be growing on me.
“Your poor girlfriend, it sounds petrifying,” George mutters around a mouthful of taco.
“Fucking hell, Lowell. How much is that costing you?” Lance asks.
I lean back in my chair, perplexed. “No idea. I don’t even want to know to be honest.”
“And Nina, she was okay?” Charlie asks.
“Yeah, she had a small bruise on her head, and she’s sore, but otherwise okay.”
“Jesus, mate.” Elliot shakes his head. “Good ‘I can make your head feel better’ sex though, am I right?” He grins, and I flip him off.
My phone starts to ring and I accept the call, raising the phone to my ear. “Vin?”
“Mason. Nina just called, she isn’t feeling well. Just a headache, but I’m going to go get her.”
She still has a headache. Is that normal? “Where are you?”
“Downstairs, about to leave.”
I pinch my lip between my fingers, contemplating whether I can blow off my afternoon. I look to Elliot and he frowns. He’s been in almost every day for the past two weeks and I don’t feel as anxious about leaving with him here like I normally would.
“Give me five, Vinny. I’m coming with you.”
I hang up, standing and buttoning my suit jacket. “Sorry, boys.”
Nina is waiting at the curb when we pull up at the studio. I hop out and take her bag from her.
“Hey, baby. You look pale.”
Her shoulders drop. “Great!”
I lean in and kiss her forehead. “You’re still the most beautiful girl in the world, Pix.”
She rolls her eyes and winces.
“We’re going to the hospital, get your head checked.”
“I agree, you’re questionable to even myself, but I don’t need my head tested,” she sasses, making me relax a little with her cheek.
I round the car and stop to put her bag in the boot before slipping into the back seat next to her. Lifting her hand to my lips, I kiss her knuckles, and she leans back in the seat, clenching her eyes shut.
“Just take me home, Mase. I need to sleep off my headache, and then I will be fine,” she says without opening her eyes.
I glance at Vinny in the mirror, and he shrugs at a loss.
Helpful. Thanks, Vin.
Nina has been asleep for hours. I worked from her bedside, hoping she would wake up feeling better after an hour or so. She didn’t.
After the fourth hour, I decided to go down to my gym, burning off the pent-up energy I had from being sat around. It didn’t work.
I cooked us dinner, following a recipe from the cookbook Scar got me last Christmas—it was alright. I ate alone at my dining table, contemplating how long before I could wake her up without feeling bad.
On the sixth hour, I watched a documentary onBear Gryllsin the jungle. The guy’s a savage.
On the seventh hour, I Googled head injuries, and pages of information later I was adamant she was dead or dying.
