Page 86 of Fire Fight

His smile falls away, replaced with a curl of disgust. “I’m sure you can sort out a deal with Hudson to split the proceeds fifty-fifty. Make your mother proud.”

“Jesus, you’re a dick.” I pull to the side of the road, slamming on the brakes. “Get out.”

Drake stares at me, genuinely startled. “This is my car.”

“Not today. I’m the one with the keys and if you don’t do as I say, I’m throwing them into the bushes and neither of us will be driving home.”

“Fine. I’m sorry.”

“Now say it like you mean it.”

He shoots a furious glare at me, then his lips slowly curve into a smile. “What’s my forfeit if I don’t?”

“A punch to the gonads so you stop thinking with your prick for a change.”

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, then winces, putting a hand on the dash like he’s about to faint. The grimace passes in a few seconds, and he adds, “Your mother’s been really nice to me, actually.”

“Good. Your apology’s accepted.”

I pull back into traffic, arriving home just a few minutes late.

“Do you need a hand?” I frown as Drake opens the door, moving at tortoise speed. “Should I take you to a doctor?” His pallor and fumbling motions frighten me.

“It’s fine.”

“It is notfine.”

But he continues to make his own way and I get out, pocketing the keys in case we have to reverse direction, putting my arm around his waist and his arm over my shoulder as we exit, the door rumbling shut behind us, inching towards the house.

“You can’t make it upstairs like this,” I mutter then instantly regret it as Drake heads in that direction to prove me wrong.

Even in pain, barely able to focus, he’s far stronger. The best I can do is assist him upstairs, helping until he sits on the bed, nudging his shoes off before he lies down.

I draw the curtains and move his shoes to the wardrobe before heading to my bathroom to run cold water on a cloth, pressing it to his forehead. “Can I get you some painkillers?”

“Stop fussing.” He catches my hand, pulling it close to his chest until I kneel on the ground to make it easier. “I’ll be better once I have a nap.”

“But this isn’t right.”

I think he’s fallen asleep—or passed out—but a moment later, his eyelids lift to half-mast. “It’s from an old head injury. There’s nothing I can do.”

“When did that happen?”

“When I was a baby.” He’s still holding my hand and his thumb strokes across the back, soothing me when I should soothe him.

“But you never used to get headaches like this.”

“Mum used to give head massages that would stop them getting worse.”

“Can you show me? I want to help.”

I feel him freeze and when his eyes seek mine, they’re wary. His grip on my hand softens, then he clutches even tighter, pushing himself upright. “She’d sit behind me and press against my skull.”

It sounds like something guaranteed to make it worse, but I get into position and lean him back against me, tentatively holding his head between my palms.

“Harder than that.”

I try, still hesitant, ready to stop at the first sign of discomfort.

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