“So by those numbers, perhaps she’s more inclined to have two TBIs in her lifetime, and me, none. Did you know there are three main groups at highest risk for TBI? Infants from zero to four years old, probably because they keep falling over stuff. Teenagers are next, which makes sense, since they’re always doing dumb, impulsive things.” Again, with the thumb. “Molly’s not a teenager yet, but she acts like one sometimes.”
Gulping, Rose shifts her eyes from one kid to the other. “Alright?”
“And the third group is adults sixty-five and older. Since, once again, they probably fall over stuff a lot.” He flashes a bright, dimpled smile. “How old are you?”
“Uh…” Rose looks to me. Then back to Franky. “I-I’m not entirely sure.”
“Well, if we go by statistics, we could probably narrow this down a bit. You’re not zero to four since, duh, you’re not that small. And you’re not over sixty either; that’s easy to tell. Teens go from thirteen to nineteen, which is probably closer to where you land. I doubt you’re thirteen, since you’re not, like…” He gestures up and down. “You’re not a kid. But maybe you’re nineteen.”
Nineteen?
Panicked, I swing my gaze back around and study her from her top to her toes.
Nineteen?
“She’s not nineteen.” I shake my head.Fuck me, she’s not nineteen, is she? “We estimated she was in her twenties. Mid,” I croak. “Not low.”
“I-I think I’m in my twenties,” Rose rasps. She brings her hand up and gently rubs her temple. “Mid-twenties.”
“Cool. So you bested the statistics,” he concludes. “And by bested, I mean you got cheated. Did you know traumatic brain injury is the leading cause of death and disability, particularly among young adults?”
“And we’re done with Franky time! Molly!” I sling my arm over Rose’s shoulder, pulling her in and turning her around. But I peek over my shoulder at the girl. “Take him somewhereelse, please.”
“On it, Doc!” She grabs Franky’s sleeve and tugs the kid along the hall.
Rose freezes under my arm, damn near rigid enough to break, and when I bring my focus back around, I find exactly why.
Chris stares. Tommy stares. Cliff. Fox. Even Alana and Eliza.
“She… you…” Rose shakes violently under my arm, tears swelling in her eyes. “Eliza is…”
Bleeding. Panting. Warrior-esque in her booty shorts, crop top, messy braids, and blood-smeared cheek.
I see now how that could be interpreted.
“She’s fine. She’s a champ. Come on.” I coax her along, her feet digging into the floor, and a desperate whimper crawling along her throat. I lead her toward Fox and Alana and the baby first, since they’re fractionally less scary-looking. “You’ve already met Alana. She married Tommy.” I gesture toward the other. “Chris claimed Fox.”
“Like a common Neanderthal,” Fox quips. She doesn’t reach out for Rose’s hand. She doesn’t dare touch. But she smiles, big and bright and warm enough to thaw ice. “Don’t listen to Franky about the mortality thing. I used to live in New York City. Did you know you have a one in a hundred and eighty chance of being a victim of felony assault? Or one in eighty-seven chance of being robbed?” She shakes her head. “Because I didn’t. Not till he told me.”
Alana steps forward and smiles. She’s softer than Fox. Serene in her motherhood—until someone fucks with her kids. Then she’s got a baseball bat in hand and zero tolerance for anyone who tries to stop her. “It’s nice to see you again, Rose.” She holds Hazel on her hip, swaying and bouncing the baby. “You look fantastic, by the way. It’s amazing what being out of the hospital will do for a woman’s complexion.”
I wink—thanks—and gesture across the room. “Tommy’s the one inside the octagon. Chris is the one outside. They’re identical at first glance, but it’s easy enough to tell them apart once you know ‘em.”
Cliff, being Cliff, bounces off the cage and saunters this way. He’s a fuckin’ cowboy, Clint Eastwood in his heyday style, so even without his hat and spurs, he walks with a swagger and carries a playful, infuriating smile. “Hi there, Rose.” He stops just a foot and a half away, his hand extended and his eyes flashing with charm. “My friends typically call me Troop. But my momma named me Clifford. Like the big red dog. The more you love me, the larger I get.”
Rose inhales and gasps, a pained sob rocketing along her throat and out to saturate the air we breathe. Then she stumbles back a full six feet, fat tears dropping to her cheeks and down to dangle from her jawbone. “No.”
“Ma’am.” He takes another step forward. “I won’t hurt you?—”
“No!” She chokes out, her cry reminiscent of the kind she experienced in thehospital. It takes over her entire body, clawing at her throat and stealing her breath.
“Rose?” I spin and close the six feet she took. “It’s okay.”
“No! It’s not?—”
“We’re gonna go to the bathroom.” Fox circles me and scoops Rose’s arm with her own, then Alana goes the other way, clapping Cliff on the back of the head as she passes. “We’ll take a minute, wash our faces, dab on a little lip gloss or something. We’ll be back in a moment.”
“What the fuck?” The second they’re gone, I slam my hand to Cliff’s chest and shove him back. “What did you do?”
