Page 64

“Enough.”

The man on television gets shot in the chest.

Lucky bastard.

I stand again. Sitting here isn't working. Dr. Pierce said no strenuous activity, which eliminates most of the ways I normally burn off energy.

No training. No running. No lifting. No work. No fucking.

I stop.

Definitely no fucking.

I head to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. Nothing looks good. Neither does anything in the cabinets.

With a sigh, I walk to the window and check the perimeter. Somewhere beyond the trees, Hollow Creek is celebrating Halloween. Callie’s probably having fun. As she should be.

But who the fuck is she having fun with?

My jaw clenches.

Does she have a date? A boyfriend?

I shake my head. No. She didn't mention a boyfriend.

And a woman with a boyfriend probably wouldn't drag an unconscious stranger home, stitch him up, and then⁠—

I cut the thought off.

Maybe she's already met someone else. It's Halloween, and there are probably tons of men around her.

Men who don't kill people for money. Who have normal jobs. Normal lives.

Men who can give her their last fucking name.

Something unpleasant twists in my chest. I don't examine it.

Instead, I walk to the bathroom and check the bandage over my side. Again.

No new blood. No redness. No swelling.

Dr. Pierce said the stitches looked decent. Better than he expected, given someone did them by following a YouTube video.

Chaos did good.

I stare at my reflection.

Why the fuck am I proud of her?

My phone rings in the other room.

I hurry from the bathroom, pain tearing through my side.

"Fuck."

I slow down, grab the phone from the couch, and check the screen.

Beck.