“Got shot. I’ll take you home soon, just need a little minute.”
“I’m fine. Just rest.”
“Did Kath tell you what Father Francis said to me? Or what we call him?” He chuckles. “GOG. God’s original gangster.”
“Trick,” Anvil says. “You’re wasted. Shut up.”
“Are you still here, you goddamned Goliath? Get the fuck out, ‘Vil. Who was with you in Boston when they were hunting Rachel? Who went after Leone with you when he took her? You threaten to shoot me in the back? Fucking Judas.”
When Anvil speaks his tone is firm but mild. “Rabid dogs get what they get. Shooting up the house? The fuck’s wrong with you?”
Without opening his eyes, Trick raises his middle finger in the direction of Anvil’s voice. “I’m gonna send you a hundred—no, a thousand memes a day. I’m gonna get a guy to build an app. Your phone’s gonna buzz like a vibrator with no off switch.”
Rachel hands me a cold cloth and points at Trick’s forehead.
I set it on his face, and his expression becomes less severe.
Rachel waves at me and leaves. I’m sorry to see her go. I know she’s not my ally exactly, but her quiet resolve was a key factor when it mattered most. Anvil goes to the doorway and stands just inside it, his arms folded across his chest, like a sentry keeping watch.
C raises Trick up by the shoulders and nods for me to sit. I do and when he lowers him, Trick’s head is on my lap. Trick breathes with his mouth open and falls asleep.
C sits on the ottoman, watching him. “When he wakes up, if he thinks you wanna leave, it’ll be hard to keep him here. But he shouldn’t go home like this. I don’t know what kind of drugs he’s got stashed in his place. Even if he’s got nothing on hand, he knows every dealer in the city. With one text he can have enough product to put down an army.” C draws in a breath and puts a hand on Trick’s chest like he’s checking his breathing, then removes it. “He might be fine. But if he’s not, you won’t be able to handle him on your own. I’m sure sweet talk from you would carry some weight, but he’ll never take orders from a girl. He’s not wired like that.”
Of course I know Connor’s right. I’ve seen firsthand how Trick reacts when I try to tell him what to do.
“And if he starts using for pain, he could lose track and overdose. He stopped breathing once.” C grimaces, the crease between his brows deep and pained. “Almost lost him. Came close.” C’s eyes lift and meet mine. “I know he’s yours now, but he’s ours too. Work with me to keep him here, so we can help you if it comes to that.”
I nod.
“Good girl,” C whispers, then stands.
I look back down at Trick’s face. It’s slack and beautiful. “How bad is his arm?”
“Not bad. Bled some, but nothing dangerous. He’s dizzy because he was pretty drunk and then got shot and then snorted a pain pill. When he sleeps it off, he’ll be better. Except for the pain. I know his arm’s killing him; he’d never have used in front of ‘Vil otherwise.”
Then the men leave me alone with him, and with no idea what to say or do when he wakes up.
* * *
Trick
My arm throbs like there’s a heart in my bicep. ‘Vil wrapped the Ace bandage tight to keep it from bleeding, but the arm must’ve swelled because my fingers are numb from the bandage’s constriction. Fumbling with the metal fasteners, I get them unhooked from the fabric and shake my arm until the Ace is slack. The pain’s immediately better. Opening and closing my fist restores normal feeling to my fingers.
It’s dark, but the back of my head against her leg and her soft breath tells me Laurel is on the couch with me. As my eyes adjust, I sit up and frown. She’s pregnant. She should be sleeping in a bed. The left arm’s not up to carrying her, but it’s not busted, so the fucker should work well enough to at least rearrange her.
I stand, putting her legs up and partially lifting her to get her centered enough so her head’s on the cushions. I try to disturb her as little as possible, but Laurel stirs as I move her. When she’s lying down, I wait to see if she’ll wake up. If so, I’ll send her into a guest room. She settles back into full sleep, so I cover her with the blanket.
In the kitchen, ‘Vil’s stretched out in a chair with his feet on the bottom step of a step ladder the girls use. When I enter he’s watching something on an iPad, but he sets the device on the table when he sees me. I don’t ask what he’s doing up because I can guess. He and C are taking shifts to keep an eye on me.
Opening the pantry, I spin the shelf of extra supplies. I open an ibuprofen bottle and shake four pills into my palm. This shit usually does fuck all for real pain when I have it, but the arm’s a flesh wound, so eight hundred milligrams will hopefully do something. I add a couple of extra-strength Tylenols for good measure.
Heating a couple of flour tortillas on the gas burners, I blow out the parts that catch fire. After buttering the tortillas, I roll them up and eat them. I should have some meat too for iron since I bled, but it’ll keep. Washing my hands, I think about whether I can go without a hit of Jack and still get back to sleep. The arm hurts, but I think I can take it. I’m still buzzed from earlier.
“When’d you marry her?”
“Haven’t yet.”
I don’t go into my strategy by telling him that I want her to hear me call her my wife over and over until it feels like a forgone conclusion, and that I want the crue to hear it too so they understand her place in my life, which is not temporary.
