Page 190 of Bad Blood

“Brighton? I knew I shouldn’t have let you—” Luca comes to an urgent stop after racing through the door, his eyes assessing the room and all the damage.

“Can I talk to you outside for a minute?” Hudson puts a hand on Luca’s shoulder, not leaving room for him to argue as he directs him past the last of the crowd and into the hall.

“Where’s Dax?”

“Here.” He raises his hand from the chair at the far end of the room, and I get a weak smile. Two nurses flank him, discussing how they want to go about relocating his arm.

Lauren gives me a sideways glance, lifting my chin to get a better look at me.

I hate the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I have to sort this out. My eyes bounce from face to face until they land on Kline.

His hands fly in every direction as he tries to explain something and shoves a nurse away. The nurse comes back, explaining the need to suture the cut on his forehead as the blood trickles past Kline’s brow and along the rim of his eye. He shouts something, but I can’t make out what it is above the ringing in my ears.

And everything falls apart in slow motion.

Kline pushes off the chair, only a quarter of the stitches done, and pushes against the chest of the man standing in front of him. He gets cuffed and forced into the seat. Dax lets out a cry of pain as the nurses relocate his arm.

“Is he being arrested?” I mumble through my swollen lip.

“Assault and battery charges,” Hudson says, kneeling in front of me. “I told you to wait.”

“I thought I could do it.” I smile, but it pulls at the cut on my lip, and I let out a groan. “And I was right. Check the cameras. Everything should be on the cameras. You can talk to Eugene. He can get it—”

“That’s the least of my worries. But this”—he takes a hold of my chin, turning my face from side to side as he examines it—“is not okay. Dammit, you’re stubborn.”

A hearty chuckle comes from behind me, and I whip around, gazing up into Dax’s stormy-blue eyes. My heart trips over itself at the look he gives me. “You can say that again.”

“Are you going to file charges against Dax?” I direct my question to Hudson. Dax places a hand on my shoulder, and I wrap mine over his, squeezing.

“We’ll review the case with the prosecutor’s office, but we’re going to recommend no charges since he was protecting you.”

I drop my head and pinch my eyes closed. “I wanted to piss him off but didn’t think he’d take it this far.”

“You got him put on administrative leave. You think he’d be okay with that?” Luca’s voice chimes in from the doorway, his arms crossed over his middle. “When you explained your plan, it didn’t involve the cops. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“It was good timing,” I say. Hudson and I share a glance before I drop my gaze. “Did you get my laptop? I had it recording. He smashed it, but there should be something on there.”

“I’ll get IT to look at it.” Luca pats my shoulder and gives me a weak smile.

Phillip comes into the room with a sling for Dax and a weary smile as Kline gets escorted past us into the hallway.

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Kline wails.

“You’re under arrest for assault and battery. You have the right to remain silent—”

Kline continues yelling something about the malpractice and wrong information about the murders. He rips and pulls against the cuffs, bumping into people as he passes by.

“Or don’t, I don’t care.” Dardson hands him off to a uniformed officer in the hallway. “I’ll be in to question him after we get this wrapped up.”

The room buzzes with voices, and I try to drown them out by trying to remember what Kline said. Something about trying to keep me out of things. And having it all wrong. What was it about not knowing what I’ve done?

I groan in frustration as the sound of a chair scooting along the linoleum snaps me back to the present, and I glance around to see who’s talking.

Hudson sniffs. He gets out his phone, sets it on the table, and takes a seat across from me. Leaning forward, he grabs his wallet from his back pocket and opens it, pulling out a business card. His eyes scroll across his screen, and he pulls a pen from his breast pocket before writing a number from his phone on the back of the card.

When he’s done, he slides the card across the table in front of me. He taps it twice, and our eyes meet as he informs me, “They offer counseling. We can’t protect you if you don’t—”

I cut him off. “I don’t need protection.” Right? I snivel, grabbing the card, and avert my gaze. I can’t focus on everything with the haze in my brain.

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