Page 84 of Cruel Hearts

“If you can stop thinking about yourself, you’ll remember that someone is trying to kill her. We didn’t think it best for her to be traipsing around King’s Crossing after your pretty little ass.”

I’ve known people like Quinn. Too suspicious to trust anyone. Been hurt by too many people when they’ve tried.

“Do you want to see Stella or not?” I’m already tired of fighting with this Goth chick.

“Yes,” she says, her voice clipped, her face twisted into a scowl.

She doesn’t like it, but tough. My head is finally on straight. The fog has lifted, and for once, I feel like I know what I’m doing, where I’m going, and how to get there.

A thin, perky blonde nurse pushes a wheelchair into the room. “Are you ready to go, Quinn?” She looks at me and then back at her. “Do you feel safe?”

“Lady, I’ve never felt safe in my life, but not because of him.”

The nurse looks unsure, but Quinn throws herself into the chair. Her shoulder meets the metal frame and she groans.

“Careful,” the nurse says.

Facing me, Quinn shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

I can see why she and Stella get along so well.

Neither of them take any shit.

I walk alongside the wheelchair, and we’re quiet as the elevator lowers us down to the lobby.

She pushes Quinn all the way up to the rubber mat of the hospital’s front doors. Quinn places her feet on the floor and shakily stands, and I help her, a hand to her waist, but the nurse says, “I have to watch you get into your vehicle.”

“I need to pick up my meds,” Quinn says, glaring at me because I touched her and tilting her head to the pharmacy and gift shop behind us.

“Okay,” the nurse agrees reluctantly. “We’ll call to schedule you a follow-up appointment time. If you need to be seen before then, go to urgent care. Stay safe.”

“Jesus Christ,” Quinn mutters. “Everyone knows I got shot.”

“You’re a celebrity,” I joke, leading her through the gift shop to the pick-up counter.

“I just want to be left alone.”

“That’s probably not gonna happen for a while.”

Quinn rattles off her name and birthdate to the pharmacy technician, and he turns around and faces a wall made of white bins. He pulls out a paper bag full of pill bottles—three different kinds of painkillers and two antibiotics. He recites the dosages and side effects, but Quinn tunes him out, shifting impatiently on her feet.

She needs a shower, a good night’s rest, and a meal that isn’t hospital food. It’s disconcerting that she looks as Stella does, worn out and tired of life.

The tech rings up her meds, and without prescription insurance, the total is astronomical. I pull out my credit card to pay and she blushes. Like Max had not-so-subtly reminded me, I’m funding this operation. This is just another expense.

The tech staples the paper bag closed and pushes it across the counter.

“Thanks,” she mumbles.

We walk out of the gift shop, and I stop her near the sliding glass doors. “Listen, I’ll tell you what I told Stella. You have no reason to trust me. I get it. But if you need anything, tell me. If you have any information or learn anything about anyone, tell me. Ashton Black is into some dangerous shit, and if you’re going to help us take him out, we need to be on the same side and trust each other.”

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at me, assessing me, studying the bloody grooves dredged into my skin. Quinn knows Stella attacked me, and I say the only other thing I can think of that will clear me in Quinn’s eyes. “I didn’t kill Maryanne. I know Stella told you I did, but I didn’t. The punk who did is dead. We’re trying to connect him to Ash.”

“Does Stella know that?”

“Yes.”

Quinn works the information over, chewing on her lip. “She sent you to pick me up, so I’ll have to go with that for now.”

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