SIX
Tony Scalise
THE INSISTENT BUZZof my phone felt like someone was stabbing me in the ear with an ice pick. I groaned awake, painfully aware of just how many drinks I’d let the cute guy at the bar last night buy me after I’d finished my guitar set.
Christ.
I hadn’t even gotten laid afterward. I’d just told the adorable blond himbo that I needed the restroom, and slunk away in to the night like the coward I was.
And now someone was calling me at... I squinted at the phone screen.
Oh.
Okay, it was actually nine-thirty in the morning, so apparently normal people were actually wide awake and doing... er...normal people stuff. Right.
‘H.,’ read the caller notification under the incoming call. It was Heath Dawson, the latest in my long history of really bad decisions. Okay, so not ‘normal person stuff,’ after all. The temptation to pretend I’d missed the call and hide my head under my pillow until it stopped pounding out a painful drumbeat of regret was... significant.
I’d been helping out Heath’s pack with informant work and various other odd jobs for a little over a year now. Along withbusking and a collection of other miscellaneous gigs, it kept the bills paid. More or less.
Then, of course, I’d had to screw everything up by getting a painful schoolboy crush on the pack’s flame-haired alpha lieutenant. Though honestly, that part might’ve been okay on its own, since he’d seemed utterly oblivious.
Until a week ago, anyway. I blamed myself for propositioning him, in a moment of courage and/or stupidity. But he didn’t have to sayyes, damn him. He didn’t have to end up being the best fuck of my goddamnedlife.
He’d apparently assumed it was a one-night stand. That it was no big deal.
Now, all I could do was try to pretend that it hadn’t been a big deal to me, either.
I groaned and thumbed the ‘accept call’ button, reminding myself firmly about the current state of my bank account.Think about the money. Don’t think about how it felt when he put his—
No. Stop.
I cleared my throat. Ugh... why couldn’t Heath use his phone for its god-given intended purpose oftexting, rather than insisting on voice calls?
“Hello?” I greeted, trying not to sound like someone who was hungover at nine-thirty on a... whatever day this was.
“Tony,” came the Irish drawl, sounding strained. “I need you to pick up some things and deliver them to the house.”
I frowned. “Okay. Is everything all right? You sound kind of—”
“Everything is very muchnotall right.” Heath cut me off, his tone clipped. “I’m at Northwestern Memorial Hospital.”
My heart kicked hard; my headache forgotten as I lunged upright in the rumpled bed. “What? Are you hurt?”
“No, it’s Knox. He’s—” He cut himself off. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I’m on the second floor of the Galter Pavilion. Meet me here, and I’ll get you some cash for the purchases.”
