Thatcher looks back at his notes and nods. “Just one more thing.”
“What?” I try not to sound like a whiny little bitch, but either I’m going to throw up or have a nervous breakdown in the next two seconds, and I don’t need witnesses.
“Is this the first time the two of you have come to blows?”
“Come to blows?” I parrot, scrunching up my face. Can this guy please make up his fucking mind if he’s thirty or fifty?
“Ezra has a substantial file at Agony Memorial. Everything from broken bones to cracked ribs. Was that you?”
My heart stutters.
Thatcher keeps staring at me with that implacably direct gaze that makes me feel like an insect pinned on a board.
“No, uh…he…he plays a lot of sports.” My voice sounds wooden even to my own ears. Fuck knows how Thatcher buys it. Maybe he doesn’t.
Jesus. My knees feel all spongy, like they’re about to buckle in. I try to hide it by leaning my hip against the counter.
“Of course, yes. Sports.” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Never really played any myself.”
“Yeah. Lots of sports.” Jesus, why’s it so fucking hot in here?
I hike up the sleeves of Rooke’s hoodie, immediately regret it when Haven’s bite mark is on full display, and tug the sleeve down again.
Damn. She bit me almost two weeks ago, but it’s still red and irritated. I should’ve gotten a tetanus shot.
Will it scar?
I kinda want it to.
…you fucked up my head. I could never stop thinking about you…
Thatcher writes something in his notebook, and I seriously hope it’s got nothing to do with what’s obviously a defensive wound.
“Sports such as…?” he asks, like he’s pretending he never saw nothing. Hopefully, he thinks these are Ezra’s teeth marks, notWhat’s-Her-FaceHaven’s.
“Football. Hockey. Wrestling.” I run out of contact sports to list and roll my lips together so I’ll stop blabbing.
“Yup. That ought to do it,” he chuckles. His eyes dart up so quick, he catches me peering at him like I don’t know what the fuck I just stepped in. “That where you get your injuries, or did Ezra get a few shots in last night, too?”
I just stare. Because what the fuck?
Thatcher touches the side of his neck, then makes a choking motion. “Looks like someone got you good there.”
…keep swallowing like that, boy, and I’ll have no choice but to feed you my cock…
“Sports,” I croak out. “Contact…sports.”
“Damn dangerous if you ask me,” Thatcher mutters as he snaps his notebook closed. “Any idea where I could reach this Haven friend?”
All I can manage is a shake of my head.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your studying. Thank you for your time, Mr. Jordan.”
“’Kay.” I want nothing more than to race upstairs, but I’m grounded to the spot.
Thatcher nods, glances down, adjusts the shiny badge that doesn’t need any adjusting, and then smiles up at me. “Must say, it’s a beautiful town.”
“What?”
