Page 50 of Plum

“Steel Bones calls me Jo-Beth.”

“I’m not calling you Plum. This is not a business relationship anymore.”

“It ain’t?”

“Nope. We’re dating. How about I call you Josie?”

“I got two perfectly fine names. Don’t need another.”

“Jo-Beth it is, then. How far is this urgent care?”

He keeps up the banter as he eases me into his Maserati, propping my foot on my duffle bag and settling the bag of ice just so on my ankle. I give him directions to the 24-hour urgent care on Gracy Avenue. He turns on the country station, and shoots me a tentative smile.

“How bad is it?”

“Hurts like a bitch.”

“I’m sorry. I was—”

I wait, but he doesn’t finish the thought. Too bad for him, I ain’t one to drop shit.

“You were what?”

“Out of line, for one.”

I nod. He was. “And for second?”

“For second?” He smiles, but it’s soft, not mocking. “Don’t you ever get mad when you’re disappointed?”

I think about it. “Nah. I get tired and kind offuck it all.”

“I get furious.”

“Feel like you should always get what you want, eh?”

“Maybe.” He glances in the rearview, and then slides me a glance out of the corner of his eye.

“You still pissed?”

“No. I have what I want.”

Then we’re pulling into the parking lot, and there’s a lot of fussing as he carries me inside and gets me registered. He seems surprised I have insurance, but Steel Bones is no chickenshit operation. They take care of their people.

He insists on covering the co-pay, which is fine by me. The place is busy, so we settle in for a wait. He takes up the whole armrest, and after a minute, he grabs my hand. He winds his fingers through mine and strokes me with his thumb.

My ankle throbs, but his touch is still nice. Distracting. I lean my head on his shoulder. It feels weirdly natural. Peaceful, even with all the coughing and the TV blaring.

“You shouldn’t have left.” He’s staring straight ahead. It takes a second for me to realize that he’s talkin’ to me.

I kind of shrug. “I’m sorry I took your shit. I really don’t know why I did it.”

“I didn’t care about that. Was it not—” He cracks his jaw and glares at the TV hanging on the opposite wall. “Was it not good for you?”

My breath catches, and my cheeks heat. I can’t answer that. “You were sleeping at your desk. I thought, you know, time’s up. I ain’t never slept over before.”

He finally glances down at me. “You’ve never slept in a—in a client’s bed before?”

“I ain’t never slept in any man’s bed before.” He blinks. He don’t believe me. “What? I like my place. And before, when I lived at the clubhouse—well, you know. If you passed out in a brother’s bed, you were down for another round whenever he woke up, and I ain’t working when I don’t have to, you know?”

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