Page 94 of The Woman in the Warehouse

Just bone-deep tired.

And as much as my stomach had other things in mind, I was just as beat. My eyelids felt impossible to keep open once I knew Anthony was comfortably—or as comfortably as he could be given the gunshot wound and his position—resting.

Before I even knew it, I was drifting off as well.

___

It felt like no time at all had passed when the buzzing noise of the intercom drew me slowly toward consciousness. With a loud grumble. Both for the interruption, and for the screaming crick in my neck from sleeping upright.

“I second that,” Anthony said, making me sit up straight, looking at him, checking for sweating or paleness.

Reaching up, I pressed a hand to his forehead, finding it reassuringly cool.

“I’m okay,” he said, giving my hip a squeeze. “Just hurts. Shoulder, neck, arm,” he added as I moved away, seeing him try to move the arm that had been around me, but it flopped like a dead fish onto the cushion.

“Fell asleep?” I asked.

“Yeah. Go get the door. I’m fine,” he said.

“They can wait,” I insisted. “Do you want a pain pill?” I asked, reaching for the bottle without waiting for his answer. Of course he wanted a pill. If I was shot in the shoulder, I would want a whole handful of them.

So I slipped the pill into his mouth, then lifted the bottle of water to his lips, since both his arms were currently incapacitated.

I was still slipping the cap onto the bottle when, suddenly, the condo door burst open, making panic surge as I lunged toward my gun.

“It’s your mom,” Anthony said, tone soothing, seeming to sense my panic.

I turned and, sure enough, there was my mom, her keys still out, bags in her arms, her horrified gaze on my face and throat.

“You have a key, why did you buzz?” I asked.

“In case you two were doing things no innocent mother should have to witness. For a second time,” she added, trying to lighten the mood. Then, because she was a mom after all, her voice went low and sad, “Saylor…”

“I’m okay,” I told her, blinking back tears that always formed when confronted with my mother’s concern. “You should really be asking Anthony if he’s alright,” I added, waving toward him. “He was shot,” I added, watching her eyes go wide enough for the whites to be visible all the way around.

“What?” she asked, her voice a hushed sound as she rushed forward toward him.

“He took a bullet for me.”

“That’s… an exaggeration,” Anthony said.

“She’s serious? You’re shot?” my mom asked, sitting down next to him on the couch. “Where?”

Having woken it up, he lifted his arm to gesture toward his shoulder. “It’s fine, Sam. I’m alright,” he assured her, picking up on her motherly anxiety.

“Does your mom know?” she asked, her hand going to her heart.

“By now? Yeah, I imagine she knows.” Then, at my mother’s look of mortification that her son was shot, and she was not at his side, he added, “This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot. Right now, I imagine she’s making a lasagne to bring over with her. I’m sure my brother told her I was up all night and need some rest.”

“Oh, no. Did I wake you two up?” she asked.

“It’s okay. I think we would need to hire a masseuse to come in for our necks if we stayed that way another minute,” I said, still reaching back to rub at my sore muscles. Then, remembering how Ant had been asleep with his chin to his chest, I moved behind him to work at his tight muscles. “Did you bring food?” I asked.

“I sensed something being very… off last night,” she said. “I figured that I might bribe the truth out of you with food,” she added, reaching for the bags. “Are you guys hungry?”

“Starving,” I admitted. “And you need to eat, so you can have your antibiotics,” I reminded Anthony.

“Not gonna turn down food. Didn’t eat anything yesterday. Figure the moms and aunts are gonna fix that today, though,” he said, shooting my mom a smile.

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