Erica’s hand stays there, with gentle pressure, using careful placement so she avoids the cut. Her eyes don’t leave my face, watching for any flinch, any sign she’s hurting me.
I know she wants to know what happened, but I’m unable to tell her right now. How do I tell her that someone swung a steel pipe at me? Even without my jaw locked. How can I see the look on her face when she finds out what happened?
And this is after I managed to block the worst of it.
It wasn’t just one guy, either.
The moment Vito disappeared down that aisle to find another jack, it was like they descended on me from three different directions. At least five guys working in tandem.
The way one of them moved wide to cut off my exit, while another came in tight. The first strike was the pipe. I got an arm up and kept the worst of it away from my skull, but it still clipped my face hard enough to lock my jaw and split my cheek. After that, it was all fists and boots, hits coming from angles I couldn’t block all at once. I did what I had to do—taking hits I couldn’t avoid, but giving back worse.
I lost my gun with the first hit and couldn’t get to my backup.
Because of that, it took me longer than I wanted to get the upper hand, but I did. At some point, I almost lost it, but then I thought of them jumping Vito the same way, and it gave me the motivation I needed.
I managed to put three of them down before he got back with the stupid jack, realized what was happening, and jumped into the mess himself to take down the other two.
By the time it was all over, I didn’t give a fuck anymore. We somehow wheeled the last pallet out and loaded them all into the van, running on pure adrenaline and anger.
By the time Vito dropped me back here, he was guilt-ridden, but I was still irritated at the whole thing and really starting to feelthe pain. Vito offered to come in and help me, but I shrugged it off, just wanting to shower and throw back some pain pills, pass out for the night.
In hindsight, it was stupid of me to turn him down, considering the fact that I can barely move.
Truth be told, I completely forgot Erica was even supposed to be here. So, it’s damn lucky that she was. Though I hate seeing the worried look on her face.
I open my good eye to see her watching me, a soft look on her face, as she holds the compress to my jaw.
The heat doesn’t fix it completely.
But it does something.
The tight, angry pressure in my jaw loosens a fraction, like a knot finally giving up. I let my tongue press against the back of my teeth and realize I’m not clenching down as hard anymore.
It’s a relief so sharp it makes my eyes sting.
I swallow once, slow, testing it. The joint still aches, still locked in that stubborn way, but I can separate my teeth a hair without pain spiking into my skull.
Erica’s gaze stays pinned to my face, reading every micro shift like she’s taking inventory. She doesn’t speak. She just keeps the compress pressed against me patiently.
I drag in a careful breath and manage, “Better,” around my teeth. It comes out rough, but at least it comes out.
“I want to take care of this cut, okay?” she says. “Then I’ll put the compress back on.”
I nod.
Erica sets the compress down on the coffee table, then reaches back into the kit and pulls out a small tube of antibiotic ointment and some gauze.
She squeezes a thin line of ointment onto a piece of gauze and dabs it on, gentle enough that it shouldn’t hurt and still somehow does.
Then she gently places an oversized bandage on it.
“There,” she says quietly. “It’s not deep enough for stitches, but it needs to stay clean. No touching.”
She leans over and very, very gently presses her lips to the bandage.
My throat works, and I feel it in my jaw. I take her hand and squeeze it.
“Okay,” she says, leaning back. “Now your eye.”
