“I…”
You trust him.
You like him.
Just let him help.
Allow yourself this reprieve just this once.
“Yes, of course, I trust you, Shepherd.”
“Okay.” He nods. “Good. Keep pressure on this gauze, okay? We’ll be there in less than five minutes.”
Shepherd circles the front of his SUV, phone in hand, as he hops into the driver’s side and buckles his seatbelt. A phone rings through his car stereo and when it’s answered on the third ring, there’s a man on the other end of the line.
“What’s the word, Shep?”
“Hey Jamal. You still hanging around down there?”
“Yep. Loading supplies.”
“Great. I’ll be there in five. I need your help.”
He pushes a button and ends the call and then we’re on the road headed who knows where. The car moves smoothly through the streets, each pothole sending a jolt of pain through my hand. I’m trying to focus on breathing, on not completely falling apart in Shepherd’s pristine SUV, but everything feels like it’s spinning out of control.
“Where are we going?” I manage to ask, my voice small and raw.
“The training facility,” he answers, his eyes flicking between me and the road. “Our medical staff is still there. Jamal’s one of our trainers. He can stitch you up properly.”
“But I’m not?—”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re with me,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
Like that’s enough.
And maybe just this once, it is.
13
SHEPHERD
Ipull into the staff lot, and park close to the side entrance. Before I can cut the engine, she’ s already fumbling with her door handle, the blood-soaked dish towel clutched in her fist.
“I’ll get it,” I tell her before hopping out and circling the hood in a few quick strides. “Okay,” I say, opening her door before she can. “Easy.”
“I can walk.” Her voice has that edge to it. The one that dares me to suggest otherwise.
“I know.” I keep my tone neutral as I lean across her, careful not to brush against her injured hand. The faint smell of whiskey and something floral clings to her as I reach for the seatbelt. The buckle clips free. “And you’re going to. In a second.”
She looks up, her eyes rimmed red, lashes damp. Gone is the bartender who could silence a drunk with a single look. Her shoulders sag against the seat. She’s tired and looking a bit defeated, but she’s still Sutton. Just…stripped of some of her armor.
I extend my hand, palm up. She stares at it.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Then her fingers slide into mine, cold and trembling slightly. I run my thumb over her knuckles—just once—and her grip tightens in response. Something warm unfurls in my chest, spreading outward to my fingertips.
