Page 169 of Flint’s Strike

“For you.”

He holds on, and we’re both crying now. Silent tears for all the things we never say to one another. For all the things we don’t need to say because we just…know.

“Okay. That’s enough crying.” Nate studies the cuff of his shirt, finds a spot that’s mostly soot-free, and dabs at his cheeks. “I’m starting to feel like we should hug, and neither of us wants that.”

I try for a smile. “No. Of course not.”

Two seconds later, he mutters, “Fuck,” and wraps his arms around me.

“If you tell anyone I cried⁠—”

My laugh sounds like someone’s choking a frog, and hurts like a motherfucker. I don’t care. “Nate? Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird, Parker. Very, very weird.” He lets go, and we’re back on solid ground again. One corner of his mouth twitches. “So…Dines has barricaded himself inside his mega-mansion with his lawyer, and they’re threatening to burn all the evidence.”

It takes me a beat.

“The evidence…we already gave the DA?”

Nate shrugs. “Osgood did fail the bar exam five times.”

I choke out a laugh. “Five?”

“Yep.”

“How the hell did he become a lawyer?”

“Persistence?”

The door opens softly, and my heart leaps into my throat. Eliot’s clutching the arms of the wheelchair so hard, his knuckles are white. An orderly in green scrubs pushes him over to the other bed against the wall, but before he can lock the wheels, Eliot’s on his feet and staggering toward me.

“Mr. Flint, you really should⁠—”

“No.” His voice is about as rough as mine.

“Well, that’s our cue to leave,” Nate says with a pointed stare at the orderly. The young man looks like he wants to argue, but a moment later, rushes from the room. Nate often has that effect on people.

“Parker, one more thing.” Nate reaches into a bag at the foot of the bed, pulls out my cell phone, and slides it onto the table next to me. “You dropped this earlier. You or Eliot need anything, food, clothes, getaway driver…you call.”

By the time the door clicks shut, Eliot has the bedrail down, but he stops short of climbing in next to me. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers.

I scan his body. Bandages around his wrists, bruises on both arms, a goose egg above his right eye, a brace on his left knee, and a thick piece of gauze covering his cheek.

“Eliot, you got the shit kicked out of you. I’m fine.”

His lips tighten. “You were unconscious.”

“I woke up. And you shouldn’t be standing on that knee. Get in bed with me, please.” I need to hold him. To know that whatever happened to him before I broke down that door didn’t change…us.

I pull black the blankets, and Eliot climbs in next to me. Every movement costs him, but when he’s stretched out with his cheek against my chest, I card my fingers through his hair.

“You were gone a long time,” I whisper.

He tenses, then blows out a breath. “Turns out a medical history that includes almost dying in a fire seven years ago puts you on a special list.”

“Oh?” I pull him closer—as gently as I can—and guide his good leg over my hips. “What kind of list?”

“The ‘let’s order a few more tests just to be safe, because this guy’s lungs are probably a fuckin’ mess’ list.”