Page 37 of Never Say Yes To Your Best Friend (I said Yes)

Then, he does this miracle where he opens the car door amidst all the buzzing and shoves me in. He quickly gets the door shut before any of the mini-asshole attackers of death can get in behind me. He’s sprinting around the car and flying into the driver’s seat before my brain has fully caught up with what even happened out there.

My. Nipple.

Yes, that deserves to be repeated with two freaking dead-end stops for emphasis. Who stings someone’s damn boob?

It’s going to fall off. It’s cherry red. It’s on the stove, forced onto a burner, and it’s been struck by lightning. It’s swelling up like an overinflated balloon. It’s going to pop, it’s going to burn up, and it’s finished. I’m finished. It hurts so much that I might die right here.

I drop my shoes on the floor, but I keep fanning my arms around in here. Maybe a miracle will happen, and the extra air circulation will work its way through my clothes and stop the motherloving agony that is coursing through my body.

“Oh my crab, oh crab, oh my crabbbbbbb!” I yelp.

“Where did you get stung? Are you allergic?” Mont’s hands hover in the car between us like he wants to touch me, but he’s afraid. Not that it could hurt, but that I’m not open to him touching me for any reason, even in medical life-or-death situations.

“How the hell, where the hell, why the hell…where did those evil little buggers come from?”

“Is it possible for them to be in the sand?”

“On a beach? That’s a new level of heinously evil if I’ve ever heard of heinous evil.”

Mont’s eyes rake over me, hot and dark with concern. Despite the extraordinary level of murderous near-blackout level pain, I feel a twinge that is entirely hormonal. It’s me reacting to the nearness of all that testosterone again.

“Where did they sting you?”

“Nowhere I can check here without getting arrested for public indecency.” My nipple feels like it’s going to explode or fall off. Is that a thing? “What if the stinger is still in there?” I don’t mean to wail, but thinking about the damage this might have done to my boob is starting to scare me, right along with the high level ofouch. I know it’s not my boob. I know it. It’s my nipple. The thing somehow had an impeccable aim, and it stung me dead center of the boob bullseye.

“I don’t live that far. It’s far enough, but short of finding a public bathroom—”

“I’m not going to check this in a public bathroom!” I practically screech.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“It’s too far.” My eyes well up.

I don’t want to cry about this. I don’t care about being strong or weak, but I know tears will only increase the level of panic. It’s already near hysteria, wondering and worrying about my poor nipple’s future. What if that sting caused lasting nerve damage? What if it’s going to hurt forever now? Can a nipple shrivel and fall off like a frost-bitten toe?

“Are you okay to go to my house? I can find the nearest hospital if you think you need a doctor.”

The thought of having to go to a hospital and getting medical attention for this is mortifying. I’m also super scared of all things doctor and hospital-related. Sometimes, it’s necessary, but I’m not sure this is one of those times, and I don’t want to take resources away from people who need the help. Also? I think they have to write everything down, and having this on my medical record? I would just rather not. I feel like the doctor or nurse who checked me out would rate this right up there with people who get strange objects stuck up in places they should not, and no, I’m not talking about the nose, although how awful would that be?

“What do you do when stung? Put ice? Dirt? Pee on it?”

“I think it depends on what kind of sting it is,” he replies.

“Do you have ice, dirt, and pee?” I ask.

“Ummm, I do, but I’m not sure—”

“Good. We’ll go to your house. I’ll hold it together until then. I can make it, I think. I hope. I’m not going to throw up all over your car or die on the inside or have a stroke before we get there. How long will it take, do you think?”

“Twenty minutes since traffic should be lighter at this time of night.”

I grit my teeth together, slide my seatbelt over my shoulder, and grunt out what I hope passes for words. “I can make it.”

Chapter twelve

Evilla

Evilla

---