Page 119 of With A Little Luck
I’m shirtless because mine was ruined, and no one thought to bring me a backup, but whoever is here can appreciate my impressive stomach.
I’ve put a lot of work into maintaining this physique—mainly beer and pizza.
Oh, and wings and burgers.
I love a good Italian spread too.
All the carbs.
Damn.
Now I’m kinda hungry, in addition to being fucked up from whatever Dr. Dane popped into my IV before pulling it. Hopefully, the pills will keep up with the pain because I’m goingto have to pretend like this little scratch doesn’t hurt a bit—at least in front of Quincy.
Everything is bright as shit, which might be why I’m squinting so much.
I pull my good arm up, mindlessly checking for my glasses.
Motherfucker.
Those dicks cost me my favorite pair of glasses. Not that my aviators really matter, considering the circumstances, but it’s just another thing to be pissed about.
Low talking spills from the living room as I make the left to head into it, and I squint even harder to figure out why the place is decorated for a baby shower.
Not to mention, Briar and Saylor are here. So is Omen, but at least he has a purpose. I mean, I guess it’s nice that they threw Quincy a baby shower to take her mind off things.
She’s sitting on Hartley’s lap in my recliner and smiling at something Briar said.
It’s good that Briar and Saylor came over. Having female companionship probably put her at ease more than if she had come home to a house full of mercenaries. Shadow Security is kind of a testosterone fest.
King spots me first. He struggles to his feet, and his entire ass shakes with excitement.
“Glad to see you’re in one piece,” Omen says from his spot on the floor where he was busy spoiling King with scratches.
“Yeah, except for that chunk of my shoulder,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I was kinda fond of it, but according to the doc, it’ll grow back.”
Omen laughs. “I believe the word you’re looking for isheal.”
“That too.” I shrug and immediately regret the choice.
“Please help me up. This is getting embarrassing,” Quincy says with a huff.
Hartley grins, leaning the recliner forward and helping her up with his hands on her hips.
I love that chair.
It’s supersized to fit my giant ass, and it rocks and swivels. Not to mention, it has a lie-flat setting that I used a lot when King was a puppy. He pissed all over everything the first few weeks after I brought him home, especially at night. He’d walk to the end of my mattress and piss right there and come back and lie by my head.
Eventually, I realized that if he slept on my chest in the chair that when he walked down by my feet, it was time to go out. Everyone told me to crate train him, but they didn’t see him the night I found him. I don’t think he’d been out of that tiny-ass three-by-four-foot cage in weeks.
“You’re okay,” Quincy whispers, coming to a stop in front of me. “God, I’ve been so worried. Can I hug you? Or will that hurt too much?”
I chuckle, wrapping my good arm around her lower back. “I’d risk popping a stitch to pick you up, if you asked me to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She buries her face in my bare chest, twisting sideways slightly to accommodate her stomach. “All I could focus on was hoping you’d be okay, but now that you are, I’m tempted to throat punch you all over again for just standing there shielding me. You probably could have gotten him first if you weren’t worried about me. We’re never leaving the house again.”
“When we first got back from Germany, my instincts freaked out any time one of my guys tried to leave the apartment,” Saylor says.
I appreciate her trying to help Quincy feel like her reaction is normal, but things are a little different here. We can’t just camp out indefinitely.
