Page 51 of Last Boy

I gulp, looking upward at the house as he pulls his truck in front of the ginormous garage. “If you say so,” I mutter.

Quickly opening his door, he turns toward me. “Don’t move. I’m helping you get down.”

Jumping out, he shuts his door, races to my side, and pulls mine open.

“Walker, I think I can get out of the truck by myself. I’m not completely useless, you know.” I roll my eyes as he slides his hands under my armpits. Even that small action alone sends pain shooting through my abdomen, and I grimace.

Carefully, he sets my feet on the ground, keeping his face angled toward mine. “Oh, really? You don’t look so good right now, Poppyseed.”

Remembering my face, I quickly look in his truck mirror. “Oh my God! How am I supposed to go in there, looking like this?” I wave my hand toward my face. “I look like I just walked off The Walking Dead set and I’m here to eat other people’s faces.” I throw my head back, pouting. “On a scale of one to ten, what do you rate how bad my face looks right now?”

“A fifteen,” he says low.

Snapping my gaze to his, I shoot him a glare. “You were supposed to say that it’s not that bad. Don’t you know anything about what women want?!”

“You tell me.” He cocks his head to the side. “When my head was buried between your thighs, did it seem like I knew what I was doing?”

Every ounce of blood rushes to my cheeks, which somehow seems to only make the bruises on my face hurt more.

When he dips his mouth to my ear, I can hear the smirk in his voice as he says, “When you came in my mouth, your pussy clenched my tongue so fucking hard that I thought you might cut it right off. So, yeah, I think I know what women want.”

My mouth hangs open in disbelief, but before my brain can come up with something to say, he nods toward the front door.

“Come on, Poppyseed. Let’s get you looked over.”

After checking me over, Beckett, Walker’s uncle, leaves the room, and I sit straight up, glaring at Walker.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I hiss. “Your uncle is Dr. Boobs?” I shake my head in pure disbelief. “Why didn’t you say you’ve been living with a freaking reality star?” I growl the last words.

When Beckett Benson walked into the room, I couldn’t believe my eyes. This dude has been a reality TV star for years—all for doing plastic surgery for celebrities and fixing botched procedures for them too. One nickname he earned is Dr. Boobs simply because he had done breast implants for so many famous people. And they certainly weren’t crappy boob jobs. No, the dude knows what he’s doing.

“I didn’t feel the need,” he mutters. “And you’d better not tell anyone. There’s a reason why no one knows.”

“I feel like I’m either dead or I’m in a hospital, pumped full of happy gas, because there’s no way I’m in Dr. Beckett Benson’s kitchen.” I gaze around the room at the most insane kitchen I’ve ever seen. “Walker, he’s like…a boobie goddess. But with a penis.”

“Why, thank you.” Beckett chuckles, walking back into the kitchen with a first aid bag. “Boobie goddess with a penis. I’ll take it.”

Walker shoots me a harsh glare, and I shrug, widening my eyes.

What? I mouth.

He simply shakes his head and continues to grumble something I can’t make out.

Apparently, Dr. Boobs is a sore subject for him. Who would have thought?

Cleaning a cut on my cheek, he takes a small package out of his bag. “Just so this doesn’t leave a scar on this pretty face, I’m going to put a few butterfly stitches here.” He looks me up and down. “Ever think about implants?”

I open my mouth to say something back, but nothing comes out because I’m in shock that this grown-ass man just looked at my breasts through my shirt and asked me about implants.

“Fuck no,” Walker growls from across the room. “Don’t even look at her fucking chest, Beckett.”

“Easy, easy.” Clearly amused, Beckett laughs. “Just saying, with a face like this, she could do more with the chest area.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Suddenly, Walker is right next to him, towering a few inches over Beckett. “Say one more thing about her body, and I’ll fucking make sure you never perform another surgery again. Your fingers will be too mangled.”

Unfazed, Beckett leans forward, gently applying the butterfly stitches. “If I didn’t know any better, Walker, I’d say you’re not over this old flame of yours.” He glances back. “Careful, boy. You know the deal. And it certainly doesn’t involve you getting more tangled with this one.” He looks me over, clearly unimpressed. “You seem like a sweet girl and all, but we all know that wherever Ron Wilson goes, there’s trouble. And you, sweetheart, have his blood pumping through those veins.” He shrugs. “No Wilson can be trusted. Including you.”

“I am nothing like Ron Wilson,” I snarl, snapping my gaze to Walker. “I want to leave now.”

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