“Yeah. I suppose.”
“So why did you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have had a reason.”
“Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter now. You can stay here until you’re stronger, then I’m gone.”
“I could say that since you’ve saved my life, you’ve an obligation to keep looking after me.”
That earned me a harsh laugh. “That’s so bullshit.”
“At least I got a smile.” I grinned. “Sort of.”
Lindsey’s smile faded only a little. “Get some sleep. I’ve got work to do.”
She left me alone to ponder how I might milk this situation. Play the weak victim game until I found the means to persuade her to not pack up and disappear. I thought about it until the pain meds kicked in and I drifted to sleep.
***
Playing the pain wracked and weak victim of a violent attack wasn’t a game at all. When I woke after the sun had gone down, I didn’t have to fake the weakness nor the pain. I hurt so badly I thought I might hurl. Lindsey, turning on a light across the room from me, took a single look at my face and rushed to my side.
“Brody? You look like a ghost.”
Her hand touched my brow, her fine mouth puckered in concern. It cupped my wounded cheek as she gazed into my eyes. “You don’t have a fever.”
“Sick,” I muttered thickly. “I feel sick.”
“I don’t doubt it. Think you can hold down some soup?”
“No.”
“Okay. Just rest. Try to go back to sleep.”
I shut my eyes, trying to will away the nausea and pain, to drift into slumber, to leave all the nastiness behind for even a little while. I listened to Lindsey move around the room, closing curtains. I heard her stop, her sharply indrawn breath.
She peered through the same window she sat beside my first night on her couch. She’d parted the curtain only a small way, her body hidden by the wall. Alarm sank its claws into me, making me instantly forget my pain and sick gut.
“What’s going on?” I demanded, my tone harsh.
“Your pals are sitting in their car down the street.”
Chapter Seven
Lindsey
The black Lincoln sat at the curb, two houses down and on the opposite side of the street. In the late dusk, I saw the outlines of two heads silhouetted by the yard lights behind them. And the tiny red glow as the driver inhaled on his cigarette.
“Are they watching my house?” Brody demanded, easing his way up. “Or yours?”
“Can’t tell.”
He stood behind me, looking over my shoulder, his breath hissing through his clenched teeth. “Bastards,” he muttered. “Loan me your gun.”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
