Page 93 of Wrecked for Love
I pushed myself up, intent on moving, but my legs gave out, and I fell back hard. Hank was at my side in an instant, his eyes wide with worry.
“Jesus, El! Tell me what you need. I’ll get it for you.”
Claire’s Ruger…that’s what I needed. Small, discreet, and something she knew well. If something happened to me, I needed to make sure she was armed so she could defend herselfor, more likely, fight back. But I didn’t know where it was. Since the incident at The Willow, she’d always carried it. But if the Vosses had taken her, it could be gone.
“Tell me what you need!” Hank insisted.
My eyes flicked around the room, and then I saw it—poking out from a shelf. “That!” I pointed. “I need that.”
Hank grabbed it, frowning as he handed it over. “Paul found this on the floor of his stockroom. He said it was Claire’s.”
“Get me my jacket, Hank,” I said, shifting like I was ready to stand.
Hank blinked, staring at me in disbelief. “El, what the hell are you trying to do? Do you even know what you look like right now?” His voice rose, his fear spilling over. “You look like you’ve been chewed up and spat out by the devil himself.”
I could see the distress in his eyes, but I didn’t have time to calm him down. My body was wrecked, sure, but I still had my will, and that was enough. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but no wrath burns hotter than a man fighting to get back what’s been stolen from him.
“Hank, my jacket,” I snapped, urgency breaking through.
With a muttered curse, Hank went to the cabinet and grabbed it, but I could still feel his eyes on me, silently pleading for me to reconsider.
I glanced down at my cast ankle. If I was going to pull this off, I couldn’t hobble around on a crutch. It was like wearing a neon sign that screamed vulnerable. For me to outsmart them, I had to blend in, not stand out like a scene from some B-movie hospital escape. At the very least, I needed to fake walking normally.
“Hank, get me a saw or something. I need this cast off.”
He stared at me like I’d just sprouted horns. “You’re out of your damn mind.”
“Just grab something,” I muttered, too drained to argue.
With a hissed curse, Hank disappeared and returned a minute later, holding a pair of bolt cutters. “You better pray I don’t take your whole damn leg off with this.”
“Just cut.”
Shaking his head, he knelt beside me. “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I said dryly.
Hank positioned the cutters and clamped down. The pressure sent a dull shockwave up my leg, but I gritted my teeth and stayed still. He worked section by section, breaking through the hardened plaster like he was snipping through fencing wire.
“Lucky for you, I know what the hell I’m doing,” Hank grumbled as he pried off another piece.
“Debatable.”
He shot me a look but kept going, sweat beading at his temple. After a few more snips and some careful prying, the cast finally came apart, crumbling like a busted fence post.
Hank sat back, exhaling hard. “All right. It’s off. Happy now?”
I flexed my foot, wincing. “Your old ankle brace—the one from your legendary rodeo comeback. Tell me you still have it.”
Hank’s brows pulled together. “Hey! I didn’t do too badly. Just landed wrong.”
“Yeah. Would’ve gone better if you’d aimed for your ass instead of your ankle. Now go get it, Hank.” I had no doubt he still had it. He wasn’t the type to let go of things—practical ones, sentimental ones, and especially reminders of the times he should’ve known better.
With an exaggerated sigh, he fetched the brace. It was frayed, stained, and had seen better days. I didn’t want to know what was still stuck to it, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Hank knelt and strapped it on.
“I need your boots,” I added.
