Page 25 of Root

That’s if I can get home to my burner.

That’s if they let him speak.

Goddamn Jack.

Goddamn everything.

The low-grade live wire of fury I keep under wraps about that situation’s enough to energize me into moving.

The first few steps are the worst, but the pulling starts to lessen or I get used to it by the time I reach the bathroom.

I stop dead.

Oh. Fuck.

“I got hit by a Mack truck and lived to tell the tale. News at nine.”

Man, ignoring the serious bedhead going on with my hair, the saturated red shade does nothing to improve the pallor of my skin. It does nothing to diminish the bruises, dark and yellowing at the edges on my cheek, right below my right eye.

I strip down to panties and a sports bra. The curse of big tits on a small frame and ugly comfortable undergarments for them is the least of my issues today.

The line of stitches is neat and done in almost a zigzag, left of my lower abs. It seems to be healing nicely. And the bouquet of bruises everywhere? I look like a victim of domestic abuse.

“Fuck this shit.”

I find an unopened toothbrush and pull it free and quickly brush my teeth and then I strip down, turn on the shower and wash.

And it feels good. So damn good to slough off the invisible dirt clinging, to wash my hair, to let the heat beat down on me.

The products are top of the line, not flashy, and not over-scented. Just…clean smelling, like fresh sheets on a line in the sun. The merest hint of citrus.

Unlike my ivory soap and whatever cheap ass shampoo’s on sale when I need it, there aren’t any strong or fake scents like the shampoo often has. The reason I switched from body wash to soap.

When I get out, I reach for the towel and go still.

Underwear sits on the vanity.

Fury flashes through my veins. Hot, nothing low-grade about it.

Someone came in here?

Fuck me.

I dry off quickly then yank on the panties and pull on the robe, because I think the time to head down and get the hell out of dodge is now. Opening the door, there are clothes on the bed and the fury spikes higher.

There’s a thickness to the air, something that tells me I’m not alone, right as he speaks.

“Brought you some new gear.”

Everything in me sparks high, out of control. The soothe of his name is at odds with the way his voice moves over me, making my stomach churn, my pussy clench and my skin shiver like he’s running fingers along my spine.

“Rush.”

He’s leaning against the wall outside the bathroom, like a total perv. I ignore what that thought does to me—it’s not something the thought of a perv waiting to pounce should do to a girl—and I rake my gaze over him.

“Jess the little stabby rabbit.” His thumbs are hooked on the belt loops of his dark blue jeans, the thick boots sexier than they should be, but hey, I’m a fucking sucker for thick, skull breaking and motorcycle riding boots.

Not that he’d know what to do with them.

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