Page 90 of My Broken Bodyguard 2: Ritchie & Tori

Her eyes widened with concern. “What’s wrong?” Her tone was calm, but I could sense the worry in her voice.

I slowly backed towards the bedroom, feeling her eyes following me intently. “I have another injury,” I admitted.

Without hesitation, Tori pulled at my shirt and unfastened the velcro straps on my bulletproof vest. Her chest rose and fell as she examined my previous injuries. “Show me now, Ritchie,” she demanded.

I winced as I tried to remove my jacket from my shoulder. “Ah, damn it,” I grunted in pain.

Tori gingerly removed my tuxedo jacket, revealing a blood-soaked white dress shirt sleeve. Her expression turned to one of shock and concern.

“Oh my God, it’s really bad, Ritchie,” she said.

But she didn’t let panic take over; instead, she took my good hand in hers and led me to the bathroom, drops of blood trailing behind us.

“Does your arm feel numb?” she asked.

“Somewhat?”

“Ritchie, sit on the toilet.”

I lowered the toilet seat and sat down.

Tori worked fast getting me out of my white dress shirt and bullet-proof vest. She grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink and placed it on the counter.

“I can’t believe you were going to try to hide this injury from me,” she scolded.

“Tori, I’ve been injured so many times. I didn’t want to worry you.”

She placed a comforting hand on my jaw. “You came back to me. That’s what matters. I can sew the wound and bandage your arm.”

Tori disappeared briefly and returned with a bottle of whiskey.

“Drink up,” she said with a small smile.

After downing the whiskey, I watched as Tori lovingly stitched up my wound.

“All right, big guy. We’re going to take a shower, a nap, then we’ll enjoy a late dinner.”

“At least order room service for now,” I told her.

“Ok, fine,” she muttered.

“How’s your arm?” she asked as we walked down the strip.

“We’ve only walked for ten minutes. You’ve asked twice about my arm.”

“That’s because you waited too long to stop the bleeding. You can’t hide things from me. If I’m going to have an attack, so be it. It’s a part of who I am. Hopefully, after I see the therapist, the panic attacks won’t happen that often.”

My jaw ticked as I listened.

Tori leaned into my side and rested my injured arm on her hip. “Does what I said make you upset?”

“No. I hate that I won’t be there when the attacks happen.”

Her hand smoothed over my abs through the navy dress shirt. “If I lived in New Jersey, you would be at work, Ritchie. You wouldn’t be able to help me either way.”

I bit down on my lower lip because she was right. “I’d still prefer you live with me in Jersey.”

“Ritchie, I know. In time,” she said.

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