Page 7 of Wicked Ruin

If you could have anything right now, what would it be?

That Italian wedding soup from D’Agostino’s. The one with the little meatballs. Maybe some crusty bread.

Declan

Got it. I’m on my way.

We’ve been texting now for a few months, and I have to admit… it’s the highlight of my day. No one can make me smile the way he can.

I keep every one of his texts and would never admit how many times I reread them. I’m basically a texting pen pal with a known member of the McCarthy family mafia.

And I’m pretty damn chuffed about it.

Dora’s fluffing the sheets. I bite my lip and swallow hard. “I have a visitor coming. That's okay, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

I don't even know why I ask her because people come all the time. My sister, my dad, Mam.

Oh my god, my mother. I forgot she’s coming.

I text her quickly and feel guilty for lying, but the truth is, I’m really not up for a visit today.

I’m not feeling well. Let’s postpone the visit? I’m fine

Mam

Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you?

Maybe later. I'll let you know how I feel. I need rest.

The guilt churns in my belly as I shut off the phone. It's a particular kind of lonely, lying in a hospital bed, lying to your mother so you can see someone who isn't coming to see you the way you want him to.

I know what this is. I'm not confused about what this is. I just don’t see a reason not to enjoy the hell out of a hot guy paying attention to me.

I'm not a particularly religious person, more of a signs-and-omens type, if I’m honest, but I can't shake the feeling that some kind of higher power is judging me right now.

“What kind of visitor?” Dora says as she comes over, checks my IV, takes my pulse, and writes down my vitals. She adjusts the drip and winces, just slightly, at the state of my arms. The bruising has spread again, all black and purple, across my arms like faded ink stains.

I don’t look at them if I can help it. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, after years of needles and draws and all that, but it still makes me feel a bit queasy.

“He's just a friend,” I say, but the way her eyes meet mine, woman to woman, tells me she already knows better. Maybe it’s the way my voice has gone husky and I’ve shifted the sheets to cover the bruising.

“Ah. Maybe not just a friend.”

Honestly, he isn't even a friend but a very sexy, older man I happened to meet at a sex club—who I told I was dying, and who I didn't want to let me die without…

I lift my chin. “Just a friend.”

“Well, you want to look your best for your close friend, don't you?” she says with a small smile. “When’s he coming?”

“Maybe an hour or so. He’s picking up lunch.”

“Good. I like a man who knows how to feed a woman.”

“Me too.”

I look away because my eyes are suddenly all watery. I swallow hard.