Page 43 of The Love Destroyers

Sighing, I admit, “Yeah. But I’m guessing that’s a normal side effect of getting clocked in the head.”

“Do you remember what happened before you hit your head?”

“No. But I’m told Mrs. Rosings threw a glass paperweight at me, so I feel lucky not to remember.”

“I’ll get Damien to drive.”

I should be relieved. I’d just been thinking I was in some danger with Emma—and Nicole’s gift-wrapping me a solution. They can handle Ellie and the asshole for her. I can park myself on Chuck’s couch for a few days, until existing stops being painful, and then I’ll start working at the garage, just like I was supposed to. So I’ve got no idea why I say, “Why don’t we switch roles? I’ll be the personal assistant, and you can be the driver.”

“You want to be Ellie Reed’s personal assistant?” she asks, her eyes full of mirth. She looks me up and down, splayed out on the uncomfortable bed on top of sandpaper sheets, pausing on my head wound. “You’re probably supposed to rest.”

“I’ve never cared what other people think I should do. You don’t seem like the kind of person who would either.”

She weighs this before nodding. She gives me an annoying-as-hellknowinglook. “I see. Makes sense after all those stalkery searches you did on Emma. You want to be the one who does this for her. Big Hero Shay.”

Yes, dammit.

“No,” I argue. “I’m no hero.”

“I’ll agree with you there, but never say never.”

“You offered me a jobandpromised to leave my past alone if I agreed to this. Our terms stick. The job changes but nothing else does. I can do this.”

“You can go buy that woman perfectly chilled Perriers and coffees with foam art and special, limited edition scrunchies for her hair?”

“I’ll even peel Carrot’s carrots.”

Her eyes shine with mirth. “You’ve been watching her Instagram show,” she comments.

Yes, and it’s a mark of Jeffrey’s absolute lack of worth as a human being that he would choose someone as fake and saccharine sweet as Ellie over Emma.

Nicole sits down on the edge of my bed without being invited too. I scoot over.

“I believe in being thorough.”

“Sure you do.” She leans over, grabbing another grape from the tray and popping it into her mouth. “You know, those aren’t half bad.”

“Take it all. I’m nauseous.”

She laughs. “You sure you can handle Ellie Reed while you have a concussion?”

If it means I get a chance to fuck up Jeffrey Nichols? Hell, yes. But that must be another concussion thought. I have no expectation of being able to hit him, even if it would feel prettydamn good—the same way I could tell it did for Emma to sledge that wall.

My mind goes to the cat, to whom Emma has granted me joint custody. I’ve been making all kinds of messed-up decisions today. Well, my father always used to say,in for a penny, in for a pound.

Admittedly, my dad was hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt to his mobster brother when he died, which is how my brother, sister, and I got drawn into his sphere, so I guess I should take his advice with a few dozen barrels of salt.

Nicole’s still waiting for her answer.

No, is the answer.

I am far from sure I can handle this shit with a probable concussion, or even without.

But I’m not willing to back down. I may not fully understand my own motivations, but I want to play a part in getting Emma her revenge. I want to play a lead fucking role.

“I’m sure,” I say, just as a knock lands on the door.

I don’t say anything, but it swings open, admitting two people in scrubs—one a woman with tiny rectangular glasses that probably only allow her to see a single inch at a time, and the other a short, nervous-looking man with bright red hair and five thousand freckles. Both are wearing scrubs—hers white, his covered with baby kittens who look a lot sweeter than Shadow.

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