Page 21 of Brother's Keeper

I savored a long drink before replying. “Where else?”

Her lips twitched. So close to a smile. “I’m glad you’re all right,” she said. “Let’s keep the near-death experiences to a minimum from now on.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She exited the room.

Leaning forward took all the energy I could muster. I set the foam cup on the table and grabbed the pain button, then let my head fall onto the flat pillow. Waiting for the blood bag to empty made for a long, boring afternoon with too much time to think. I thought of sneaking out, but someone had swapped my clothes for a thin hospital gown, and I would be conspicuous enough sneaking out of the building trailing tubes and wires like a cyborg than if I did it half-dressed.

So, I waited and tried to sleep. As exhausted as my body was, my brain was wide awake and churning. The memory of Jax pinning me to the floor and grinding his teeth against the bones of my arm proved haunting. I meant what I’d told Holland: I was used to taking care of myself. Grimm couldn’t be bothered to spare me from investigating my own crimes; I doubted he would go out of his way to stop someone from killing me in cold blood.

If I couldn’t defend my spot in the gang, then I didn’t deserve it. That was the party line. Even if that gang was feeling more and more like a cause I was fighting for rather than a group I was part of. Emptiness carved a pitin my stomach.

In the Bloody Hex and at the Capitol, I was worth as much as I had to offer, for as long as I could offer it. The moment I became too compromised, too weak, too slow, I could and would be replaced.

I’d planned to spendmy day off at the Bitters’ End, keeping clear of Donovan’s airspace as his bad mood rolled through the week. I didn’t know what bothered him most: the boredom, the isolation, or the guilt from his shared responsibility for a half dozen lives lost. I’d offered a shoulder to cry on but, since blaming me for his problems seemed to be his chosen coping mechanism, it was better to stay out of his way.

When I’d told Nash my intentions and let slip about my cat-gnawed arm, he insisted on coming to me instead. Donovan had gone out for a walk, and I was grateful for his absence as I pushed the screen door open and allowed Nash admittance to the houseboat’s interior cabin.

He walked in, wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans. His boots thumped the floor as he came to a stop and held out a bottle of whiskey, dangling it before me like a worm on a hook.

“Housewarming gift,” he said. As I grabbed for it, he pulled it back and gave me a look of warning. “Notan excuse not to visit.”

“Understood.” I took the bottle and tucked it in the crook of my elbow, which drew Nash’s attention to my gauze-wrapped left wrist.

His gaze lingered on my arm, too pensive for my liking. “It wasn’t just a bite, was it?” he asked.

So, I’d downplayed it a little, but detailing the attack would have only worried him. With less bartending work to keep him occupied, Nash had made a hobby of nosing into my business. I wasn’t used to having someone paying such close attention, especially someone who could see through my bravado like it was as holey as a piece of Swiss cheese.

“I’m fine.” I stepped away from him, opening a cabinet and shelving the whiskey inside. “The investigators handled it.”

Behind me, Nash shifted from side to side. “The same investigators who have a stock of antimagic dog collars, an entire witch-proof prison, and yet don’t bother to dispel their interrogation rooms?”

I shrugged off a growing feeling of discomfort. “I guess.”

He huffed a breath. “Maybe they’ll rethink that now.”

Glancing over, I found his face stormy. His brows drew down over his eyes as he looked off at a distant nothing.

I cleared my throat. “Hey, I don’t want to talk about work on my day off, so…” I stepped back in the scarce open space and gestured to the room around us. “This is the place.”

As soon as I said it, I realized I should have spent last night picking up instead of sprawling uselessly on the couch.

Nash’s expression returned to neutral as he surveyed the open cereal box spilling onto the counter, blankets piled haphazardly on the bed, and empty beer and energy drink cans filling the sink.

Since my rage cleaning effort earlier in the week, the state of things had gradually declined. Life in a motel taught Donovan and me to expect occasional housekeepers. They picked up after us, fluffed our pillows, and emptied the waste bins. I’d be lying to say I didn’t miss those niceties. In fact, as outdated as Lazy Daze had been, it had a leg up on the old boat. I was keenly aware of the shabby furnishings and clutter better suited to a dumpsite than a home. I meant to clean, and cook food that didn’t come from a can, and do all the domestic shit that was simultaneously familiar and foreign, but it had proven a struggle just to keep milk in the fridge.

“It’s a little cramped.” Blush burned my cheeks.

Nash walked past and stopped in the narrow aisle between the bed and the couch. “No problem,” he said. “We’ll just have to get close.”

Pushing aside the wadded blanket and pillow, he cleared a place to sit, then patted the cracked vinyl seat beside him.

With a sly grin, I climbed onto the couch. I swung a leg over his lap, straddling him on bent knees.

He gently grabbed my gauze-wrapped arm, then stared at it for a long, quiet moment before asking, “Are you sure you’re okay? Two days is a long healing process with magic involved.”

“Word is I’ll get some cool scars out of it,” I said.

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