Page 55 of Repairing the Wreckage

I’m vaguely aware of their low, concerned murmurs fading and my front door clicking closed.

Then I’m out.

Home sweet home.

* * *

Bright light punches me in the forehead.

I groan and try to throw my arm over my eyes, then moan at the pain in my shoulder.

“You alive?” Remy’s gruff voice forces my eyes open.

“Satan? That you?” I mumble. “Did I end up in hell?”

He rudely rips the covers off. Cold air races over my skin.

“Motherfucker,” he breathes out. “Are you okay?”

“I was.” I groan and sit up. Boulders of pain bounce around in my skull. “I was enjoying some healing, restorative sleep until I was rudely jarred awake.”

“Juliet was worried about you and texted me.” He backs up so I can stand. “Now I understand why.”

I grunt at him and shuffle into the bathroom, praying he won’t follow.

When I emerge, he’s on the other side of the door. “Did you want to hold my dick for me?” I ask. “‘Cause I’m not into that.”

“Shut up.” He lifts his fist, then drops it at his side. “Come on. I brought food. I want you to eat something, then take more pain stuff. I assume you went to an actual doctor?”

“Yeah.” I shuffle behind him as he walks down my short hallway and turns toward the kitchen. “Some special clinic.”

“They give you anything useful for the pain?”

“Bro, you know I won’t swallow anything harder than Tylenol.” Too many addictive genes in my DNA to take the risk. I’d rather suffer through the pain.

He grunts a sound of grudging agreement.

Despite every part of my body throbbing or aching, my stomach rumbles. That’s gotta be a good sign.

“Sit.” Remy orders.

I ease into the chair by the window so I can keep an eye on him. “Yes, Dad.”

“Don’t ‘dad’ me.” He opens my cabinets, searching for plates, rinses one off, then sets it on the counter. “I can’t believe they sent you home in this condition.”

The scent of roasted chicken teases my nose and my mouth waters in anticipation. “Bro, this is what we do. We literally run an underground fighting ring.”

He sets a plate of chicken, macaroni salad, and cornbread in front of me. My stomach roars to life and I pick up a chicken leg, taking a vicious bite.

“We never let a fight go this far.” He waves a disapproving finger at my injuries—my entire body. “What the fuck was the ref doing—taking a nap?”

“He wasn’t the best,” I admit, setting down the chicken leg, picking up my fork, and stabbing into the macaroni. “Other guy needs surgery last I heard.”

“Good.” He sets a glass of water in front of me. “You get knocked out?”

“Not once.” I turn my head, showing off my jaw. “Concrete chin saved the day.”

He slides into the chair across from me. “You’re done with this now, right?”

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