“This will help you warm up,” she repeated, bringing the tea back to his mouth.
He growled and shook his head again. “Sh. Grou. Ara. Fee.”
“Hmm? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Fres . . . grou . . . n Arab . . . a off . . . ee.”
Leigh released her cackle-laugh. “I think he’s requesting freshly ground Arabica coffee. I take that as a good sign.”
Remy blinked at the stranger in astonishment. Of all the things he could have said in this moment while barely clinging to life, these were the words he’d chosen? He was placing a—a coffee order? As if she was a barista?
“Tea,” he gritted out. “Stain . . . d ot . . . ter.”
“Coffee is also stained water,” Remy pointed out.
“Ara . . . bica,” he said.
“I have Folgers coffee and Lipton tea. That’s it.”
He studied her with groggy outrage.
“I’ll be right back with a cup of Folgers,” Leigh announced.
His consciousness had begun to return when they’d had him on the rug. All he’d been able to think was that he wanted to go . . . away again. To wherever he’d been. Sleeping? But the way they’d pushed and pulled at him had stolen his ability to go away because pain sliced through his chest whenever he moved. Or inhaled.
What had happened to him? The gears in his head weren’t working right. They were turning too slowly, which made the world blurry and gray.
A long, drawn-out curse word dragged through the sludge of his mind.
The blond woman sitting beside him lifted her eyebrows, so he might’ve said that out loud.
She set his tea aside and reached for a mug of her own. Cradling it with both palms, she took several long drinks.
He tried to shift into a more comfortable position. The movement shot agony through his body, so he stopped. Better to remain motionless. Except he couldn’t do that either. His body was shaking uncontrollably.
Frowning, he squinted at the blonde.
Edgy energy radiated from her. She was young but not very young. Late twenties? Medium sized. Plain. Her oval face might be pretty with makeup, but she wasn’t wearing any. Bad taste in clothes. Her horn-rimmed glasses had water spots on them that she hadn’t seemed to notice. Eyes—no particular color. She’d taken the front of her hair and knotted it on top of her head. It fell wild and wavy in the back.
Where am I?
His line of sight traveled to the closet doors opposite him. Then to the wall that held a window. Rainy weather caused the trees to lean and toss. The bedroom was painted navy blue, the walls covered in stuff. Contemporary art. Metal stuff and wooden stuff. Books had been stacked on the bedside table near the window next to a lamp and wooden head. The head was glaring at him with elongated eyes and a narrow nose.
Cautiously, he looked to the bedside table on the other side and found another wooden head eyeballing him and a lot more junk covering the walls.
The older of the two women poked her head in the doorway. “Anything else I can get you while I’m in the kitchen?” she asked him.
It took him a while to locate the word he wanted. “Morphine.”
The older lady with the weathered, rectangular face grinned. “I’m fresh out.”
“Then twenty-one . . . year-old rum.”
The blonde’s mouth tightened with annoyance. “I have one bottle of tequila on hand in case of emotional emergency.”
“I’ll . . . take it.”
“No can do,” the lady in the doorway said. “In your condition, alcohol will make things worse not better.”
