“Ribs, definitely.Right wrist is bad,” Snapper told him,still stroking my hair.
“Face is a definite too,” Roscoe said in an infuriatedmutter.
Face too.
Oh yes.
They definitely took care of my face.
“Someone choked the fuck outta her,” Roscoe kept up thetally, the fury in his voice escalating.
That wasn’t a “they.”That was only Beck.
“Was it Bounty?”Roscoe asked.
“Of course it was Bounty,” Snapper stated tersely.
“Wegottaknow, brother,” Roscoereturned quietly.
I felt his hand leave my hair, which was a relief, but thenhis fingers curled around mine, which made me wince.
Eightball had bent them so far back, it was a wonder theydidn’t snap off as he was holding me when he was hitting me.
“Squeeze once, it was Bounty, Rosie,” Snap said.
I wasn’t going to squeeze.It was easier to speak.
“Yeah,” I pushed out.
“’Kay, babe, ’kay,” he crooned, thankfully his fingersleaving mine, but they went back to my hair.“We got it now.You’re good.Gonnatake care of you.”
No they weren’t.
Hewasn’t.
No one was going to take care of me.
But me.
Not anymore.
They were supposed to do that before.
And now I was on a cement floor, beat to hell.
But I was going to be.
Good that was.
Yes, I was going to be.
Finally.
And it was going to be me that made me that too.
I turned my face into Snap’s cut as an indication heshouldn’t stroke my hair anymore, as a way to tell him to get the heck awayfrom me, to leave me to the ambulance, to leave me alone, to get out of myhair, out of there, out of mylife.
But the fabric snagged my swollen nose and a whimper slidfrom me.
