“She was out of her mind with worry and terrified of calling you,” she says. “I think he didn’t want to go to the hospital because he thought they might see the thigh wound. She was afraid you’d say he couldn’t go to a hospital period because that’s what he’d said. But she couldn’t even get him up after he fell. He crawled to the bedroom, screaming from the pain in his ankle. It took almost thirty minutes to get him into the bed. She didn’t know how she would even get him back to the bathroom when he needed to go.”
“Fuck,” I say, feeling guilty. I’d never imagined that Little Joe wouldn’t at least call to say he needed a hand at his place. There are plenty of guys I could’ve sent over. Any of them could’ve gotten him in his damn bed and then sent me a picture of his ankle and asked for orders. “My people shouldn’t act like they’re on their own. We call it a crue for a reason.”
“They’ll know now,” Zoe says. “You’ve shown them.”
My gaze slides to her. She’s taken no credit for getting us here. No credit for calming his wife and toddler. No credit for her patience in going on this ride-along to a hospital for a stranger.
I’m sure now that she wasn’t involved on any level in the hit on the van. She didn’t hesitate an instant in going to the home of the guy who got shot in that robbery. She didn’t flinch when she held his crying wife or saw what a healthy twenty-four-year-old man had been reduced to from being shot during that robbery. No one’s that good of an actress.
“Z?”
“Yes?” she asks, turning her head.
“Thank you.”
She smiles. “I didn’t do much, Connor.”
“Yeah, you did.” I know now what I’ve sensed all along. She’s the woman for me.
Chapter Twelve
Zoe
Three days later, we go to Slattery’s Pub. It’s a local hangout in their neighborhood and it’s crowded, but Connor is acknowledged with a nod that says he can choose his spot. I wear a boysenberry-colored dress that dips in the front and plunges in the back. His palm is on my bare skin, making it tingle as we head up a back staircase. My heels click against the worn wood, which creaks underfoot.
Things are tense because I’ve been pushing to go home, and he’s not willing to let me leave his place.
“What if I stay somewhere else? At one of my friends’ places?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Sanders knows your friends. Frank probably does too.”
I scowl. “Dennis isn’t a threat to me. And Frank would be a lot less angry if I stayed with a friend than if I stayed with you.”
