“Oh!” He gets up and practically bounces to the counter and returns with a small paper bag.
He opens it, triumphant. “Your favorite. The blueberry one. Try not to act surprised that I pay attention.”
I take a bite, still smiling. “Thank you.”
He turns to pour me coffee, already reaching for the mug when I stop him with a raised hand.
“Pleeease don’t.”
He stops mid-motion. “What?”
“I’m not sure how to tell you this, but… you make the worst—and I’m not exaggerating here—the worst cup of coffee in this entire city. No. The world. Jax.”
His mouth falls open. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. For a bar owner who works mostly nights, how do you survive without caffeine?”
“I don’t,” he says, pointing over to the windowsill with a grin.
I turn and I see it—a can sitting next to an ashtray. The label is matte black with jagged red font and a scratchy illustrationof what looks like a radioactive crow. The name reads: “WAKE THE DEAD.”
I snort. “Every day?”
He shrugs. “It works.”
I take another bite of my muffin and laugh until tears stream down my face. The mix of emotions too much to contain—joy, disbelief, terror—all swirling together until I’m a complete mess, hiccuping between sobs and laughter, the blueberry filling smearing on my cheeks as I try to wipe my eyes with my sticky hand.
* * *
Dr. Daniel St. Clair taps a pen against my file, then shifts my leg again.
“Any pain here?” he asks.
“No.”
He moves to my knee. Twists. Presses. “Here?”
“No.”
He frowns, looking up at me. “You’re sure?”
I glance at Jax, who’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, then back to his dad. “Completely.”
He pulls back and sets the pen down. “You had three partial tears, internal swelling and deep tissue bruising.” He looks me dead in the eye. “You should be in agony.”
Jax steps forward, his shoulders tense. “She’s not.”
“I can see that,” his dad says impatiently.
Daniel strips off the gloves and tosses them in the bin. He crosses his arms and looks at Jax like he’s the one under examination now. “She doesn’t flinch once,” he says, his voice devoid of warmth. “Not from pressure. Not from impact. You expect me to believe she’s feeling nothing?”
“She’s not on anything,” Jax grinds out.
His father raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something—disappointment?—in his eyes. “You sure? No injections? No patches? No herbal bullsh?—?”
“You think she’s on Ash?” Jax cuts in. “Seriously?”
“I’m right here,” I say, my own temper flaring. “You can ask me.”
