Page 164 of Bona Fide

? Every Time You Leave — I Prevail feat Delaney Jane ?

“Marty!”I lunge for him, my full weight crashing into his body, and squeeze him to make sure he’s real. His warmth seeps through my T-shirt as my heart swells in my chest. The back of my eyes smolder with tears and a wrecked sob slips when his arms wrap around me tighter.

“Tsarina,” he mutters into my hair, smelling like New York exhaust and greasy food. “Why didn’t you look through the peephole before answering the door?”

I choke-chuckle in his shoulder and shake my head. “I did, idiot. What are you doing here?” I slowly break from him, gripping his massive forearms for support before I notice the gash over his right eyebrow. “What happened?!”

He gives me a feeble grin, and half-ass rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, brushing by me to head towards the kitchen.

I don’t miss the small limp to his stride as his frame fills out my tiny kitchen. His fingertips brushing the cheap countertop to make sure he has something to support him in case he misses a step.

“Do I get to guess?” I press, closing the door before following him. Marty’s palms land on my kitchen island, steadying his weight as he stands across from me.

“Working.”

My brows slowly rise. “On what? Getting your ass kicked?” His biceps bulge from his Boston Red Sox shirt as he leans over, appearing twice as big as the last time I saw him, months ago. “Are you on roids?”

He immediately chuckles, his dimples illuminating off his face as he hangs his head. Then my blood rushes to my brain as I notice the small amounts of blood droplets on his chest that blend in with the material.

“How are you here?” Hesitantly, he trails his gaze up to mine, green eyes flashing a warning to stop asking questions, but it quickly fades into nothing.

“Drills,” he deadpans with an emotionless expression.

“Drills?”

“It used to look worse, Tsarina.”

Uh, huh.

I cross my arms along my chest. “It looks like it just happened. And that wouldn’t be right because you’ve been over the pond since leaving after Christmas.”

He shrugs. “Reopened it in the taxi when the asshole slammed on the brakes.”

“Did you trip and fall to get that gash on your head or…?”

“Damn,” he sighs. “I would’ve gone to visit Mama, if I knew you were going to ask me twenty questions and starve me.”

“Questions first.”

“How about first aid first,” he retorts.

“First aid first,” I repeat. “And questions after.”

His brows furrow. “Don’t you have food? I’ll just make a quick sandwich.” I give him an exaggerated smile as I go down the hall to my bathroom.

“Not unless you like expired milk and moldy cheese.”

“You said you were taking care of yourself,” he bellows from the kitchen. I whip out the peroxide, Q-tips, and Band-Aids from my medicine cabinet over the toilet.

“I’m eating.”

Sort of.

I find him plopped down at one of the stools in front of the kitchen island, hunched over like a child that’s not getting his way and strumming his fingers impatiently along the surface.

I steal another glance at his gash. “Taxi, huh?” He sends me a glare then averts his eyes.

“I told you New York was a dangerous place to live.”

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