Ezra tried to point at him, but his hand didn’t work. With a frustrated curse, he chucked the peas into the sink, where they landed with a mushy thud, and waved his good hand at Grade.
“You can shut up,” he said. “Until we know this isn’t your fault, I don’t want to hear a word out of you.”
“Give me your hand,” Clay said. He grabbed for Ezra’s wrist.
“Fuck you,” Ezra repeated as he jerked his arm out of reach. He pulled the sleeve back and gestured at the jagged raised scar that ran down the inside of his forearm. “Last time you patched me up, this is what you left me with.”
“Man up,” Clay said.
This time he got hold of Ezra’s hand and pulled it out straight so he could look at it under the lights. He pressed his thumbs between the knuckles and along the back, and Ezra’s knees nearly buckled as the color drained from his face.
“What did they use?” Clay asked. “A hammer?”
“Butt of a gun,” Ezra said. “Old school. Well?”
“You need to go to the ER,” Clay said. He let Ezra reclaim his hand.
“I don’t keep you around to tell me the obvious,” Ezra said. “Just splint it up for now.”
“It won’t get better,” Clay warned him.
“I’ve had worse,” Ezra reminded him flatly.
“Fuck it,” Clay said with a shrug. “It’s your funeral.”
He turned away to get the first aid kit from the top of the fridge. Ezra grabbed the bottle of bourbon and stuck it under one arm so he could wrestle the top off with one hand. The next shot he took straight from the bottle.
“I’m not fucking happy about this,” he said.
“We got that,” Clay said. “Wasn’t exactly the round two I was planning on having tonight either. Put your hand down.”
Ezra put his hand flat on the table.
“One,” Clay started the countdown as he took hold of a crooked index finger. “Two—”
He yanked it straight. It made a hollow gritty sound that made Grade’s stomach churn, the taste of blood replaced with bile in the back of his mouth.
Ezra yelped, slammed the bourbon bottle down on the countertop, and swore thickly. Fresh sweat beaded on his forehead as he doubled over and breathed raggedly.
“What the fuck happened to three?”
“You ask that every time,” Clay said. “Ready?”
Ezra shook his head. He straightened up, tossed back another glug of bourbon, and then nodded. Grade gagged and looked away, but he stillheardit as Clay did a DIY set of Ezra’s little finger.
“I figured Fisher,” Ezra said.
“Same.” Clay started to splint Ezra’s fingers. “But we’ve not given him any reason to come after us—I didn’t even piss in his pool—and why the hell would he suddenly fixate on some laptop? That wasn’t what he wanted from us.”
“No,” Ezra said. He wiped sweat out of his eyes on the sleeve of his T-shirt and nodded to the corner of the room. The remains of an HP lay cracked open on the tiles, the screen smashed with the heel of a boot. “I gave them mine, ’cause why the fuck not. What do I care if Fisher knows what porn I download? That crazy shithead probably cracks one off toShark Weekrepeats. That wasn’t what they wanted. It was a—”
“A MacBook Pro,” Grade said. “Thirteen inch.”
“Yeah, length of my cock,” Ezra said sardonically. He broke off to suck his breath in through his teeth as Clay relocated a knuckle. “Fuck. That how you touch your boyfriend’s cock?”
“If my cock was that color, I’d go to the ER,” Grade said.
“Whatever,” Ezra said. “So they told you the same thing.”
